Cold Comfort Commonwealth
by 60Minuteman
Summary: With the Institute gone and the Brotherhood destroyed, life in the new Commonwealth continues on. But the ghosts of the past continue to haunt the General of the Minutemen, the Alpha of the Railroad, and the Sentinel of the Brotherhood Remnants. Their mistakes, the ones they've left behind, and the paths they still have to follow are all laid out before them. Project in progress
1. Aftermath I

Morning at the Castle. He'd moved his quarters to one of the chambers underground, giving the old one to Ronnie Shaw. She was here more often, it only made sense for the post commander to possess that room. But General Hal Grayson wanted to be a bit harder to reach. A bit tougher to find. Lately, he hadn't been at his best in the morning. His sleep hadn't been coming to him easily. He stared at the ceiling, listening to the sound of his troops coming to at this hour. Drilling in the yard, rifle practice outside the south wall, Radio Freedom blasting its violin music over the speakers as whoever was operating it made the morning announcements. Today, it was Sergeant Ferguson. He knew because she'd drawn the short straw on the duty roster, and she absolutely hated doing it. But life went on in the Post-War, Post-Institute Commonwealth.

Normally, he'd be up and at it around zero-five, out in the yard at zero-six with a mug of coffee in hand as he made himself privvy to supply issues from Colonel Shaw, troop movements in the north from Garvey at Northern Command in Starlight, reviewing recruitment efforts (there'd been a huge surge from Diamond City lately) and seeing to the usual business about the Castle. But he hadn't been able to keep on his routine lately, and Colonel Shaw had wordlessly taken over many of his duties until he managed to get himself out there. When he got himself out there.

Grayson finally sat up, sighing as he rubbed his gaunt face, feeling the two-week stubble over the pockmarked scars. Some he'd acquired during his time in the US. Alaska had been cruel. But those jagged marks under his jaw were from a Deathclaw trying to eat his head. The deep burns on his cheek from when a Forged had smashed him with the nozzle of a flamer. The scrawling tear around his eyebrow from an Assaultron outside Vault 95 only not taking the upper half of his skull off because of Cait body-tackling the bot. His other cheek was a sinister pucker, a savage .45 slug from a Raider's revolver blowing his mouth out. And that was only the marks on his face. His fingers ran over the damage, grunting at the sensations. He had mapped his face out many times, a once handsome visage twisted by the Commonwealth. The past few days, he had run his hands over his face so many times, he wondered whether his cheeks or his fingers would give way first.

He needed something to get him out of this...a return to form. His hand felt the stubble again.

A shave. Perfect.

He stood, moving to the attached bathroom. The lightbulb chain was tugged halfheartedly, and he glanced up into the mirror. A gaunt, thin, tired face greeted him, and he needed a second to recognize himself. Since waking up, he'd lost weight due to malnutrition and going without a few times, but it was only now that he realized he'd been surviving the past week on caffeine and a few quick meals like Blamco, and not nearly enough. The Castle had a fully stocked kitchen, and received foodstuffs from other farms, as well as a small vegetable garden and fishing the troops did in their off hours. The Minutemen cooks were quite skilled, and now had much practice with preparing large batches of food. With this glut of nutrition, he should have been feasting like a king. But the General of the Minutemen was instead starving like a resident of Jamaica Plain (seemed like those folks could never catch a break). He'd never even felt any hunger pangs.

With a small grunt, Grayson reached down, pulling a straight razor from the cup on the sink, pulling the blade out and running his sharpener over it. Some things had truly been lost to history after all.

He stirred up a small tin can full of foam, quickly running over his face. This kind of luxury, in so short a supply, was something he'd held on to for a while. True, when he'd first emerged, the lack of shaving utensils and time meant he'd slipped back to his old Alaska habits of ignoring his growing beard. The onset of winter had merely made growing one more practical. But then he'd reinitiated the attack on the Institute, and the pressure of being an officer in charge of a force this large once more had forced him into shaving his face, and he'd started feeling like it was Alaska all over again. This time, however, he was making a difference.

Until the Prydwen.

He tried not to let himself think of it, taking up the razor and trying to figure out where to start. He'd lost so much weight that he was unfamiliar with looking at his usual spots. Finally, however, he decided on the line just under his jaw, reaching and pulling upwards. However, he suddenly remembered another small scar, but before he could stop his hand-

* * *

Paladin-Commander Brandis winced from the cut. Not the worst pain, but without a mirror he was forced to work by touch. After losing his beard, he'd gotten used to the way the Prydwen had been able to provide. A real head, not the survival bunker's tiny excuse, with real food and drink. It was a shame he'd only been there for a few months before the tragedy had struck.

He pulled his hand back, looking at the blood. Not too serious, he'd be fine. But this damned razor was dull, and he tossed it aside in disgust. No time to sharpen. No time to really do any of the usual routine lately. It was wakeup, get to the briefing room, grab a bite and coffee, and see to the business of the Brotherhood's survival. Well, the Remnants, at least. The term had been coined by Scribe Haylen to distinguish between their meager, reduced force and the East Coast Chapter proper, still down in DC. Getting a message to them had been difficult, and Brandis wasn't sure their broadcast shortwave distress signals were even being picked up. The Big Apple Wasteland's radiation signature made direct communication impossible. Even now, weeks after the fact, the Citadel might not even know Maxson was dead, along with all of his Proctors.

He glanced towards the door, remembering their patient in the cell converted to an ICU. Well, most of his Proctors.

Along with all the Squires aboard. So many Scribes. Dozens of Knights and Paladins. Almost all their Vertibirds. The whole arsenal.

Brandis had attempted to go salvage the wreck. But Boston Airport was Minuteman territory now. He wasn't suicidal...at least, not enough to sell his life stupidly. There would be a time soon when he'd make his death worth it, and he'd finally go into the afterlife to be confronted by his dead comrades.

So funny. Between the recon team and the Prydwen, and now the Remnants, he had a nasty habit lately of outliving his comrades.

Brandis groaned as he shifted, hunting around for the syringe. He wasn't a chem-rocker, never was, but the bandaged bullet wound in his thigh demanded his attention. Stimpacks were in short supply, needed for those who were actually wounded down in the Cambridge PD basement. Medical supplies were scarce, and medical personnel even fewer, falling on just four medics to attend to dozens. But Med-X they had plenty of, and Brandis had been allotted his own supply to allow himself to heal naturally. It still hurt like a bastard, but better than going without.

He decided against shaving today, and the Paladin-Commander stood, checking himself one more time before leaving his office/quarters. The old precinct was a buzz of activity, as the few Scribes they had remaining rushed around attempting to coordinate with Knights and Initiates trying to keep the Remnants a fighting force. Weapons and ammunition were in plentiful supply, at least, and food scavenged from the ruins could keep them fed (though Cram and Blamco weren't the healthiest meal choices) but fusion cores and power armor parts were in desperate supply after the loss of the Prydwen and her maintenance bay. Many of the defenders on the ground in Boston airport, around Goodneighbour and on patrol in the Commonwealth had little more than their weapons, supplies on hand and armor frames, which exacerbated the supply issue when several hundred Brotherhood soldiers were suddenly dumped on the Cambridge PD outpost. The surrounding yards had been turned into overcrowded camps, and the streets of Cambridge a free fire zone all over again, but the Remnants were outnumbered, undersupplied and constantly under siege.

And somehow Brandis was supposed to pick them up out of this mess.

"Paladin-Commander," said a voice at his elbow, and he turned to his second in command Knight Penelope Straker. She'd been an Initiate upon first arriving in the Commonwealth, and had even been the one to track Brandis across the torn ruins of upper Boston. With a certain General's help, as it happened. Though Straker never spoke of it anymore, without support from the Minutemen, she'd never have survived the trek alone.

Fate was certainly a fickle mistress.

Brandis nodded back to her wordlessly, and she extended a mug of coffee, dark as her skin. She wore combat armor herself, a full set colored in Brotherhood red and black. Her own T-60 suit was in for what repairs could be done, but the Knight was still one of few who kept hold of their armor.

"Another Ranger party last night. That makes four this week. They're scouting us for sure." She scowled as she stood next to him, watching the beehive activity boiling through the temporary HQ. "Only a matter of time before they drop some more mortar shells on us."

"They haven't yet," Brandis assured her. "For whatever reason. Maybe they're out of shells? So long as they don't, we're still alive."

He automatically brought the mug up to his lips, beginning to take a gulp. But his mind suddenly scream at him that he'd forgotten to check the temperature, and his lip began to scald-

* * *

Desdemona brought the mug down with a wince. Much too hot. Must have only just come out of the pot. She coughed, setting the mug down. More than likely, she'd get so busy she'd forget about the mug and it would be cold again by the time she remembered it. Her hand moved straight from the ceramic over to a notebook, which she flipped open, checking a list of names before glancing up at the map. Around her, Railroad agents worked to restore the tower to a more sustainable state. It had never been that hospitable to begin with, but after the Brotherhood attack teams had struck, and in the ensuing evacuation and battle afterwards, the Railroad's center of operations in the Old North Church had been rendered asunder. With further attacks a guarantee and now compromised beyond recovery, the Church had to be abandoned, just like the Switchboard before it. Ticonderoga Safehouse may have been wiped out by the Institute, but the Brotherhood knew nothing about it, and that made it a more suitable center with the Battle of the Boston Commons raging outside Goodneighbor. With the fight over, suggestions had been made to reclaim the Old North Church, or even the Switchboard now that the Institute was gone, but Desdemona had vetoed both suggestions. With Randolph dismantled, their safehouses in the west no longer existed, and Mercer Safehouse up in Kingsport necessitated a secret base here in the east. And everyone knew where the church hideout was now.

Things were changing, fast. With the destruction of the Institute and the Brotherhood reduced to Remnants, synth safety was both more assured and more important than ever. True, the Institute was no longer around, and the Brotherhood no longer actively hunting them, but synths that had escaped from the Institute were even now still turning up on the surface, whether alive or dead. The sad reality was, alone and unaware of the dangers the Commonwealth posed, these synths were at risk to dying horribly in any number of ways. Only those who had learned to hide in the deepest holes of Boston or figured out how to fight quickly had survived, and the Railroad had done their best to find them.

They were as alone in that fight as before. While General Grayson had forbidden violence against synths and ghouls based solely on their nature, individuals were difficult to account for. Reports of violence against synths from regular citizens had risen sharply. Given that many synths wore their Institute jumpsuits, Dez supposed that was an inevitability, but then there were those who wanted revenge against synth infiltrators, synths who had been wiped and living their lives in peace. Railroad agents were attempting to shift those people out and away from potential discovery, which meant finding synths in large population areas. In Diamond City and Goodneighbor, they were all too likely to simply be shot on discovery, whatever the Minutemen said (though sometimes it was the Minutemen doing it) though in Starlight or Sanctuary this wasn't quite the case. Regardless, Dez and her agents were as alone as ever.

"Where are we with the L&L Gang?" she asked, tossing the notepad down to the table in front of her.

"Bullseye is coming back with that," replied Deacon, wearing one of his numerous disguises. This time, he was a Neighborhood Watchman, his pilfered Thompson Century set down next to him. "Big Maude was the target this time, down in Dunwich Borers. Yeesh, I don't envy him that job. That place is damned unsettling."

"Good," said Dez, unconsciously checking the Colt 10mm at her belt. Ever since the Switchboard's fall, she'd been getting worse about her own paranoia. The attack on the Old North Church sealed that, and she'd seen fit to reinforce her clothes with ballistic fibers and find a small, concealed armor vest to wear under her jacket. Three grenades hung on her belt now, and a boot knife had made its way into her jeans. She wasn't sure if it was because she'd finally taken Bullseye's advice or if the Brotherhood had really shaken her up that badly. Hell, she'd even stashed a hunting shotgun under her desk, loaded with incendiary shells.

She moved on to the next order or business, losing track of exactly what she was talking about. She'd been on autopilot since the move, focusing on her work and her agents. Sleep came little, and other distractions few. She needed to keep working. If she had time to herself, time for her mind to wander, it always went wandering down the same tracks. She was still reliving the nightmare of the Switchboard, the slaughter that went down there. Then practically in an eyeblink the Church was gutted by the Brotherhood. If not for Glory's sacrifice and both Bullseye and Deacon's clever thinking, they would have been wiped out long before the Minuteman force had flanked the Brotherhood attack.

" _Dez! Tincans coming! Maxson's lost his mind!"_

" _The escape tunnel's compromised!"_

" _Knights coming in!"_

" _They're blowing through the walls!"_

" _DRUMMER!"_

Dez blinked, suddenly realizing she had several agents staring at her, Deacon included. Whatever she was doing, she must have drifted off in the middle of it, her hand still extended, about to point at something. What it was, she couldn't recall. She looked up at Deacon, blinking as realization spread through her. Ticonderoga was quiet, as around the room everyone stared at Desdemona. She grimaced. How obvious had she been lately if this many of her people had been so attentive to her actions?

"Dez?" Deacon's face, normally so laid back or carefully controlled, was etched with worry, more than he'd ever shown. He reached out to her.

"I'm fine," she said harshly, taking a visible step away. Deacon's hand hung in the air for a moment before he put it down, shaking his head.

"No, Dez," he said quietly. "You're really not."

"Are you forgetting something? We have a mission here. Save synth lives. Whether from the Institute, the Brotherhood, the L&L Gang, Diamond City, the Commonwealth or even the Minutemen!" That last one she was a little hesitant about. Upsetting the strongest power in the Commonwealth when the Railroad was ready to collapse seemed like old hat, but Dez wasn't in a logical place at the moment. "Our individual safety comes second to all that. While we're chatting right now, Captain Sally and the L&L Gang are torturing more synths! A paranoid farmer is blasting someone who walks up in an Institute jumpsuit! A Minuteman is looking the other way as a lynch mob hangs whoever they think is a former Institute synth! An escapee on the run is about to wander into Salem and get torn apart by Deathclaws or Mirelurks! It's time you focus on your job and stop worrying about ME!"

Desdemona had always prided herself on her even temperament, though she'd admit it to no one. In sixteen years of service and eleven of those in the Alpha position, she'd handled every situation with direct, calm action. Her days as a field agent had seen her on several assassination jobs, infiltration missions and retrieval operations, and the reason she'd been chosen to replace Pinky Thompson had been her ability to keep her head, no matter the circumstance. But now, it seemed, her legendary temperance had left her.

A jerk at her arm, and she felt herself pulled away, the door slamming open in front of her as she was dragged into what had nominally become 'her office'. She was heavily dropped into her seat, through her curses and protests as she glanced up, fury etched into her face.

"Dammit, Bullseye! What the hell was that, dragging me off like that in front of **everyone**! You are pushing it, big time!"

"Dez, shut up. Doc Carrington's on his way, you need to calm down."

Bullseye was a Railroad heavy of exceptional skill. Right when General Grayson was taking his hunt for his son to Fort Hagen, Roland Moore was found sniping Institute attack synths from the Old North Church steeple, not even realizing he'd been right on top of the Railroad's HQ. Even with .50 caliber shell casings around his ankles and a Courser dispatched to take him out, neither side had made the realization until Glory had charged out and finished the fight. Extensive interrogation revealed Moore had been escorting a stranger here to the church without even knowing they were a synth. The man was found dead in the next building over, killed by super mutants, and Moore had been forced to hole up as the SRB's attempts to collect their property ran into the marksman. From there, Bullseye had been christened, and quickly racked up a body count to rival Glory's. Though he'd lost an eye during the Brotherhood's raid and been forced to wear a patch over the sickly wound, his aim had barely been spoiled, and he was always willing to put rounds on target for the Railroad, finding a new rival in the mercenary MacCready. On top of this, he'd become Desdemona's top heavy, and would have been the one to spearhead the attack on the Institute if the opening hadn't closed for them. Through this, the two had developed a quiet, professional relationship, almost friends.

Bullseyes glared down at Dez, though she saw no real rage there. Concern, certainly, but maybe a quiet fury that was buried under several layers. No one in the Railroad knew the whole story about each other, and like her Bullseye was a bit of a mystery. Aside from being a rather charitable merc, his motivation for freeing synths was unknown, but he hadn't led the Railroad astray so far. He'd protected the Church, Ticonderoga, Bunker Hill and Mercer with amazing tenacity. Like Desdemona, his own focus and control were razor sharp, and the intensity he had latched on her was extreme.

"Dez, you're coming apart at the seams. You don't sleep, you hardly eat, all you do is smoke, drink coffee and run yourself into the ground. Shit, ever since the Institute's fall all you've done is go harder. You're going. To. Kill yourself."

"I didn't realize you were my mother," she spat back. She didn't know where that all came from. Why was this happening? She had a grip on herself, even under the worst circumstances. But here she was, berating her agents for their concern. That was never something she'd done in other times of crisis.

Bullseye narrowed his...well, eye at her before he turned back to the door, hissing "I'll let Doc Carrington know he's going to have a bit of a struggle here. **Don't** leave."

And with that, one of her last capable agents stepped out and closed the door behind.

Now she was alone with her thoughts. Exactly what she was afraid of.

Desdemona reached up, rubbing at her temples. It was true she hadn't been sleeping so well, and she couldn't remember the last time she'd eaten a full meal. Her mind began racing, and she knew that was also because of dehydration. She had yet to resort to chems like Tinker Tom had, but in Drummer Boy's absence, she'd had to fetch more of her coffee herself. It wasn't something she asked him to do, just something he seemed to automatically know. Well, knew.

Her head slowly raised as she leaned back, pushing her chair back until she could look through her office window, into the main room outside. Her agents were mostly attending their duties as before, but Deacon and Bullseye were off to the side with Doc Carrington, most likely discussing her current state. She felt like a prisoner, or a quarantined patient. But now, calm and separated from the rest of the team, the more she thought about it the more she realized they were right. She had been on edge the past few weeks, losing her sanity through her own self-inflicted trauma. But after losing Sam, and then joining the Railroad and watching her friends getting picked off only to see the majority of her followers slain in two battles, it was the moments where it was quiet and she was alone where the felt the worst, because the cracks under her skin could almost be visible. Like she could shatter with the next impact.

With no work to do and no one to talk to, her eyes drifted (as they were wont to do) towards the wall where no furniture had been placed. In a structure like Ticonderoga where space was a premium, this meant the wall had to be important. And it was. In white paint, the Railroad lantern was drawn at the top, and underneath a list of names scrawled on.

Beatrice Bell. Maven. Miss Boom. Roger. Francis O'Dell. Sly Nicholas. Kelly K. Songbird. Mister Mathers. Tommy Whispers. Snow. Freeman. High Rise. Dutchman. Helena. Blackbird. Drummer Boy. Glory.

That was just the start. Dozens of Railroad agents had died under her watch, all of them written into that list, on that wall. Her hand clenched into a fist against the glass, her head dipping as she felt herself tilting forward, forehead against the cool surface. She was so tired. Tired and alone.

* * *

The door to his quarters swung open, and General Grayson stepped out, dressed in Minuteman coat and officer's hat (he had immediately hung up the tricorn, opting for a more appropriate piece of headgear he'd obtained from a Coast Guard station), grunting as he adjusted his armor vest, blue and grey with the Minuteman logo emblazoned across the front. Dogmeat, who had been patiently waiting, perked his head up, tail wagging as he rose for his master.

"Hey boy. Sorry you were out all night again."

Most nights, Dogmeat stayed with Grayson, curled up at the foot of his bed. Some nights, however, Dogmeat ran off on his own agenda, and as a result had a problem getting back in when Grayson was asleep. Though the General had his own suspicions about where his four-legged friend went.

"Have fun with Gracie last night?"

Dogmeat tilted his head to the side, as if feigning innocence. Gracie, the Castle's mutant hound sentry, had made fast friends with the other dogs the Minutemen used. Her kennel was much larger, of course, but she and Dogmeat were the best of companions. Some Minutemen were even beginning to make jokes about what the puppies would look like.

Dogmeat stuck to Grayson's side as the two made their way up through the catacombs. The sound of other troops going about their day filled the fort, and every group of Regulars he passed swiftly stood aside, saluting as they greeted him. Grayson and Dogmeat headed for the surface, quickly passing the chambers that made up the lower portion of the Castle. Barracks, supply rooms, a rec area, a medical wing, the robotics maintenance area. The surface area was only half of the Minuteman HQ's capability.

Grayson felt proud. He embraced it, welcoming anything that lifted his misery. These soldiers had come a long way. But if they were going to complete Grayson's plans, they had a long way to go.

Emerging into the outside, Grayson tugged on the brim of his cap as he squinted against the sunlight. The roar of rotors cut the air as a Vertibird, colored in Minuteman blue, flew past, headed for the airbase on Spectacle Island. Every week, another aircraft was recovered from the wrecks across the Commonwealth, be they Army, Coast Guard or Brotherhood wrecks, and with Sturges and Isabel leading the salvage efforts from the Mechanist's Lair as well as putting together robots and assembling rifles, the Minutemen were becoming a truly modern force. A pair of Minutemen Enforcers, veteran Reglars wearing T-45D powered armor suits, strode by, both of them saluting as they moved, the miniguns they were hauling obviously going towards the armory.

Tents set up in the Castle covered staging zones, briefing areas and equipment tables. Minutemen Regulars taught Militia the finer points of their R-91s, cleaned their weapons and handloaded ammunition, Enforcers maintained their armor in racks, bayonets fixed to weapons and machetes sharpened. Grenadiers were passed explosives, Marksmen fine tuned hunting rifles and laser muskets and up on the ramparts Regulars patrolled in blue and grey armor, eager and waiting for the next attack. But after repelling both the Institute and the Brotherhood, it seemed the Commonwealth had given up on trying to force them from the Castle.

Dogmeat barked, and nearby several figures turned to spy Grayson approaching. While two were recognizable by the navy blue dusters they wore and distinctive headgear marking them as the senior officers of the keep, the other two were a bit harder for the General to place, dressed merely in flannels, jeans and lightweight leather armor. Dogmeat ran up to one of the officers, the woman with the black beret, and she kneeled down, scratching the German Shepard behind his ears. Ronnie always had a soft spot for the dog.

"Morning Colonel," Grayson said to his second in command. To the man, he also shot a nod. "Captain." The ghoul Sanders nodded back, his face blank and stoic as usual. Sanders was a star officer through and through, unflappable and unwavering. He'd been leader of the Slog's militia, and joined up when Brotherhood extortions on surrounding farms had forced Wiseman to act. The result had not been pretty. Sanders had been a diehard Minuteman ever since. His current assignment to the Castle's QRF had been a smart move, as he had taken every call and won, leading his Regulars from the front, no matter the enemy. Ronnie was proud of her first officer.

Grayson turned to the two strangers, wondering for a moment if they were civilian merchants, salesmen who were here looking to supply the Castle. While that had been a prospect the Minutemen had survived on before, these days the contributions from other settlements meant their purchases were fewer and far between. Arms and ammunition, uniforms, food and high tech parts were supplied by the Minutemen Provisioner Corps. Still, a little economic stimulation to pad the armory was never a bad thing.

"I'm sorry, I don't believe I…" he trailed off, allowing the two men their chance to introduce themselves.

"Right. Commander Bailey, Far Harbor Militia," said the senior, his beard obscuring most of his face. Still, he reached his hand out, and Grayson shook it, noting the man's tight grasp and numerous callouses even under the gloves. "Good to meet you General. Captain Avery sends her regards."

Far Harbor was an allied port, an island several days travel to the north, only accessible by boat for the moment. New Hampshire was so overgrown, Grayson suspected they might have to employ jungle warfare to deal with whatever creatures might reside there. He'd been in Africa before the War, and suspected this might be even worse. Regardless, Far Harbor had seen rough times lately, and that had produced fighters so tough and proficient with fishing boats that they could almost be counted as marines. They'd turned down membership in the Minutemen, but Captain Avery had promised that should the Commonwealth need help, their friends in the north would be willing to come to the rescue.

Bailey thumbed over to the man next to him, rather emotionless and blank even compared to Sanders.

"This is Marston, from Acadia. No formal rank, so far as I'm aware."

Marston simply tilted his head downwards, his eyes never leaving Grayson.

Ronnie stood, giving Dogmeat one last scratch before she said "These two have come from Captain Avery looking to request some help back on the Island. Normally we don't deploy that far afield, but I wanted to leave it to you, sir."

And, of course, she waited until Grayson had come out instead of sending a runner. More evidence of the General's fragility. The normally tough and ass-chewing Colonel Shaw was being, of all things, discreet. That never spelled well. On top of that, the Harbormen were proud of their self-sufficiency, and the Acadians of their isolation. What happened that made them both decide they needed the Minutemen of all people, and asking together?

But Grayson merely nodded, gesturing to a door to take them off towards Shaw's quarters, also their high-security briefing room. "Shall we take this in the ready room, Colonel?"

The group began drifting towards the door, but when Sanders stepped forward, Greyson paused, spotting something that had been behind the ghoul officer. His hands fell to his side, the cigarette pack he'd been fishing out of a pocket forgotten. He remembered the memorial was there, of course. But for a few minutes, he'd almost missed it in the interest of attempting to carry on. But today, of all days, his thoughts had haunted him especially hard, and as a result the sight carried him forward, away from the departing group. Colonel Shaw glanced back, taking a double take before cursing under her breath.

His boots crunched in the dirt as he approached the wall. Regulars moved out of his way as he stepped around the radio station, and the closer he got the more Minutemen stared after him, realizing where he was going. There was one span of wall without a tent. Along the north, by the large main gate and towards the armory, there was a piece of cleared ground, the wall there specially reserved. The stone was carefully carved, and every Minuteman both respected and dreaded it. At the top, a painted sign read ' **FOR THOSE THAT FELL FOR FREEDOM'**. The General stepped forward, sighing as he read the wall, like he had dozens of times already. Dogmeat sat next to him, whimpering as he did.

Grayson knew them all. Whether he met them or not, or saw how they died or not, he had looked into them after they had been killed. Where they came from, who their friends were, how they had died. They were his soldiers, and he was their General. While in war men and women died, in the Commonwealth every day was war for the Minutemen. There was always more to be done here for them.

Private Harold Warburton. Killed by a Courser during the 2nd Battle of the Castle where the Institute was determined to wipe the Minutemen off the map, shortly after Grayson had rejected Father following Bunker Hill. The man had taken up a mounted .50 cal and had been laying down fire to allow a team of Minutemen to withdraw from the outer trenches when a stealthed Courser had simply stepped up, put a pistol to the man's head and pulled the trigger.

Lieutenant Jessica Sanders. Killed by Gunners defending the ghoul boy named Billy. The best tactical officer in the Castle QRF, and the most capable medic the Minutemen had under Curie. She'd always lended a helping hand in the medical ward, and had the highest recovery rate of all Minuteman medics in service, even to this day.

Sergeant Matthew McGill. Killed detonating a frag grenade in his hand while wounded, surrounded by security synths in the depths of the Institute. Cut off and alone with his comrades dead around him, he'd squirreled away and let the enemy come to him before he finished them, laughing loudly.

Captain Luis Rivera. The first junior officer Preston Garvey had promoted, one of Marberry's lot who had survived Quincy after all and originally gone into hiding after the fact, but emerged to reenlist. Killed during the Battle of Boston Commons defending Goodneighbor next to the Neighborhood Watch as the Brotherhood invaded.

Wiseman. Not truly a Minuteman, but he'd backed the group, and sheltered every soldier who came to his dangerous part of the Commonwealth. Stood his ground against the Brotherhood when they came calling for part of his harvest, and had the guts to say 'no' to a Knight with a laser rifle in his face. Died with defiance on his lips.

Colonel John Marbury. Thought dead during Quincy, returned to service once more. He'd been given command of Croup Manor, Minuteman Command East. From there, Marbury's men had struck against the Brotherhood time and time again, and had been the ones to hold back the tide of high-tech soldiers in the Boston Commons. When Maxson retaliated, he did so in Croup Manor. Casualties had been heavy, but the Minutemen had escaped with more wounded than dead, and Colonel Marbury alone had remained. When Brotherhood Knights kicked in his door, he had merely smoked a cigar, taken a drink and thumbed the detonator, exploding the munitions dump in the basement. The entire building had been levelled, taking every Brotherhood soldier attacking the Manor and several Vertibirds with it. A victory for the Brotherhood, but a pyrrhic one that robbed Maxson of vital defenders and equipment.

The wall had dozens. More. At last count, even since Grayson had become General, over two-hundred and fifty Minutemen had given their lives for the Commonwealth, the fighters at Quincy included. Two-hundred and fifty he'd failed, both Regulars and Militia, in less than two years. He reached out, his fingers running over the engraved stone, feeling the grooves under his fingertips. At the base of the wall, boots, hats, folded coats, jars with flowers in them, spent shell casings, dogtags, folded Minuteman flags, small mementos (such as cameras, holotape players, pictures in frames) and more. This wall was constantly visited, and carefully maintained. A cloth overhang protected the place from the rain, stretched over a large portion of wall, a practical move considering the Minutemen were expecting many more conflicts in the future. How many more would fill the wall? At this rate, hundreds. The span was too short for thousands, but perhaps the Memorial would be continued downstairs, or in a special record?

He still remembered the attack on the Institute, swamping into the clean facility over the blood of his fallen, chunks and parts discarded like simply meat. Lasers blasted away whole pieces and limbs, and could be arguably worse than bullets. Trying to clear the SRB had been the worst, with Coursers attacking in goddamn teams.

The Battle of Boston Commons. Backed by the Railroad, Minutemen forces had enacted a fighting retreat to Goodneighbor, where Hancock had led his Neighborhood Watch to dig in for a terrifying defense without artillery, while the guns were reoriented on the Prydwen. According to radio reports on the ground, entire buildings had disappeared under laser fire, and without Goodneighbor to act as a stronghold, the entire defending force would have been wiped out. Minuteman missile teams, flamer-bearing Grenadiers, sentry bots and Engineers with precision detonated shaped charges had blunted, slowed and finally halted the Brotherhood force long enough to allow the Castle to strike the killing blow on the Brotherhood airship.

Storming Fort Hagen with Ada, taking the fight to the Rust Devils. In that tight, winding hell of battling raiders and their robots, flames everywhere and empty, automated voices and deadly defenses. General Grayson had personally charged the Devils' leader Ivy, blasting the furion core out of her armor and shoving her over the rail into the bowels of that base to die trapped in her frame. Men and women had died on that raid, and more would die to the Mechanist's own robotic hordes, even with the looming threat of the Institute and Brotherhood looking over them.

It was just battle after battle, war after war. The Minutemen didn't do graves, they normally cremated their dead to save space, effort and preserve memories, but when Grayson stared up at this wall, he saw a mountain of skulls, with himself standing atop it and the Minuteman flag flying overhead. Was this what he'd introduced to the Commonwealth? Not a potential stable future in attempting a second Commonwealth Provisional Government, but endless conflict, where more men and women died to fight those whom he made enemies with?

Had he made things worse than before?

He didn't feel when his fist met the stone. Didn't remember raising it. Didn't remember the conscious decision to slam it beside the names. But he heard the impact. Heard the draw of breath as assembled Minutemen drew in a sharp breath. He felt his breath quicken, his heart pound harder, a cold sweat under the brim of his cap. What kind of man was he? How could he hold his head high after so many had died under his command with seemingly no end in sight?

He thought of Shaun, coming back to the Castle after spending some time in Diamond City with Piper and Nat, all so he could go to school. The boy looked up to his...father. Admired everything he did. He was -proud- to be the General's son. He wanted to follow in Hal's footsteps.

Piper, who looked up to him as one of the few people she could trust again.

Cait, who thought he was the best thing to have ever happened to her.

Preston Garvey, who saw Hal Grayson as the saviour of the Commonwealth.

MacCready may roll his eyes, but the fact he served the Minuteman for barely subsistance level pay spoke volumes of the respect he held for Hal.

Hancock had come to their aide without question, where he could have simply barred his gates and told the Minutemen to take a hike.

Deacon and the Railroad had been saved twice by the Minutemen, and Desdemona had thanked him personally.

Curie hung on Hal's every word, and looked at Boston with such open eyes...in her own words, the Minutemen were the best chance for civilization.

Strong may have been a super mutant, but the fact that 'humans help humans' meant he was more than willing to help Hal Grayson with little question spoke volumes.

Nick had called Hal 'the next Douglas MacArthur. We need a guy like that again.' Hal had offered to come work privately with him, but Valentine had held up a hand, stating the Commonwealth needed him more.

Old Man Longfellow wanted the Minutemen to come to Far Harbor. To protect them. To nurture them, and reconnect the Island to the outside world.

And Codsworth, of course, still happily served from Home Plate, keeping track of the home Hal had set up, happy to look after a family again, odd as it was.

He looked down to Dogmeat, who simply wagged his tail and barked. That was Dogmeat. Always happy as long as he came along.

He looked to his assembled Minutemen, his officers, his soldiers. Combat armor and assault rifles, power armor and miniguns, mortars and flying flags. And they all looked back to him with concern, respect, and the eagerness to serve that had seen them through two impossible wars already. They had won. Yes, they'd taken losses. But they had won where everyone had written the Commonwealth Minutemen off.

Colonel Shaw cleared her throat, stepping forward with her arms crossed over her chest, carefully asking "You okay, General?"

A pause. There were dozens of Minutemen here, Regulars and Militia. For a second, the air was still, with only the distant tones of the radio, the indistinct whirring of helicopters and the underground rattling of generators. But he also heard the sea, and while there would undoubtedly be gunfire in the distance, there was more than ever before. Because from the outpost in Hangman's Alley to the isolated Tenpines Bluff and surrounding frontier, Minutemen stood to repel men, monsters and machines.

And General Grayson felt that spark to reignite his drive since he first took the Castle, that unerring burn to wipe the Institute off the map.

"These men and women have died for us. They have paid the ultimate sacrifice. But they did it on their own desire, for a dream they realized could happen, despite the odds. Some of these soldiers have stayed with us since the beginning, when Colonel Garvey and I first started recruiting. And some only joined on when armageddon was knocking at the door. But they all took up a rifle, formed the line and marched for the safety of their family and friends. For a safer Boston. Because every fight we win, is one less day where a farmer worries about being murdered. Every monster we put down is another trade caravan capable of getting through the ruins. Every raider gang we annihilate is another town that can grow in peace." He raised his fist, the same fist that had pounded into the wall (though now he felt the throbbing in his knuckles and winced) and uttered three simple words. "For the Commonwealth!"

As one, the assembled troops raised their own fists, guns, machetes, and returned in an overwhelming chorus "FOR THE COMMONWEALTH!"

General Hal Grayson had finally found that thing he'd been searching for since he'd ordered the Prydwen shot down; a purpose to keep fighting for.

* * *

Paladin Brandis stood before the wall of photos, dogtags and scrawled notes. It was all they had left here, to mark the passage of the dead. So many more lay in unmarked graves, piles of burned and blackened bones or buried under structures. The coffee mug hung limply, empty in his hand as he considered how many they'd lost. How few were left. The noise of the Remnants command post fell away as the numb sensation settled in his body. The Brotherhood was hanging on, barely. But it was only a matter of time before they were finally forced out. They lost many to desertion, Brotherhood soldiers who saw no way out, corralled into a helpless situation. They lost some to sickness and injury, as medical supplies were definitely running out. They lost some to ambush, snipers, encountering bands of Minutemen and Gunners, deathclaws and mirelurks. They were a depleted force with a handful of vertibirds and were slowly being killed as they tried to hold out. Brandis was hoping to change that, but it might not be a possibility.

"Sir," Straker said as she appeared at his shoulder. He didn't even glance at the Knight, eyes narrowed upon the photo of Elder Maxson, set center of the board.

"Knight," he replied, shifting in his jumpsuit uncomfortably.

"Report from Somerville. The farmer and his family agreed to move on." Knowing Straker, Brandis could imagine how the farmers had been 'convinced' to give up their home near the Glowing Sea. But, it being so close and cut off by a river, several raider hideouts, a Super Mutant fortress and a few mirelurk nests, it could be the best place to escape from Minutemen guns. The nearest settlement, Egret Marina, had no artillery the scouts had seen, relying instead on the guns from Jamaica Plain. While that could potentially change, it would buy time for them to dig in.

"Sunshine Tidings, also. Definitely a Minuteman place, but there's been a continuing rise in raider -customers- if you believe that. They come in and shop at the stands, drink at the bar, buy food...shit's getting weird over there. Some strange guys showed up a few days ago, said something about Nuka-World. Nothing else on that angle."

Brandis grunted. Sunshine Tidings was always going to be a bust, but better to get some knowledge on what was happening there before they tried their mad dash south. So long as those raiders and mercenaries didn't interfere, he didn't care anymore. His dedication to protecting Commonwealth citizens ended when the Minutemen bombed the airport.

Straker cleared her throat, quietly continuing "And one more thing, sir...Proctor Ingram has awoken."

Now -that- got Brandis' attention.

* * *

( **Parting Shot:** hello everyone, and welcome to my new project, Cold Comfort Commonwealth. In it, I explore the idea of what could potentially be. We all know how things take place, how it all leads up and all the choices and dialogue that can be done. So instead, I will be using this project to explore the idea of what takes place in between. All those random adventures and plot holes the game and other stories don't seriously cover. What was the General's first winter like? Who pulls off the missions for the Brotherhood if you don't do them yourself? Why didn't the Railroad come under attack -after- the Institute's defeat anyway? And what happens in the aftermath with Nuka-World becoming interested in the Commonwealth?

Also, if you beautiful people have suggestions or ideas, please feel free to submit them with your reviews and criticism! I take it all into account with my original ideas when I write, so don't be afraid to submit what's on your mind, and should this document receive enough popularity, I'll continue the project!

Hope to see you all on the flipside, wasters! And remember; keep your stimpacks close, those radscorpions far and your guns loaded!)


	2. Aftermath II

(Author's Note: 60Minuteman here, with a small apology to those who were expecting a much quicker update. I have been working quite a bit of overtime at my job on top of reenlisting in the Army Reserve and the insanity of tax season. Fortunately, with all that BS over with, I should be able to devote more time to writing.

Also, on disclaimers; I do not post any about Fallout because I assume everyone here reading a story under the Fallout section acknowledges that this content is under copyright, and I am not making a profit on any of this.

Now, for a disclaimer that matters; I am a big fan of Fallout mods, and they have improved my game immeasurably. I can't imagine playing without them. If anyone spots any mod content that I refer to, know that I am neither modder nor thief, and do not claim any of these hardworking peoples' labor for myself.)

* * *

 **2 Days Later**

 **Pip-Boy Date 6.6.2288**

 **Cambridge Ruins**

"Kingpin Actual, this is Hitman 2, over."

" _Roger, Hitman. Kingpin is receiving you, send traffic over."_

"Kingpin, be advised activity within target compound Charlie Papa Sierra has increased, break. Looks like they're really getting ready to go, over."

" _Copy Hitman, standby."_

…

"Winter's coming early."

"Huh?"

One figure turned to the other. Here, in the rubble, they were near impossible to tell apart. Their duster and drab clothing helped them blend well with the destroyed, ancient brick and steel buildings. Gasmasks concealed their faces, and wide-brimmed hats protected them from the sun beating down on their heads. But while one had been observing the Cambridge Police Station and College Square through a set of binoculars, the other had taken a second to glance towards the north. Not too far away, the imposing and desolate hills rolled beyond sight, full of fog and tiny movements that told of creatures slipping through the dead trees. Even further away, the jungles of Nampsher were deep and foreboding. Not many people went north these days, but the ever present jungle seemed to be coming to them, year after year crawling south.

"What the hell are you talking about? It's June, man."

"Yeah...but the herds are moving south already. You can see them sometimes when you watch the hills. Radstags and brahmin. They only start moving south this time of year when its bad up north."

"...seriously? It's June."

Abruptly, the radio headset connected to the large and bulky backpack, crackled.

" _Hitman, come in. Over."_

The Ranger with the binoculars turned back, leaning his head into the microphone as he viewed the compound again.

"Go ahead, Kingpin."

" _Hitman, you are to continue monitoring the target for any sign of VIPs. Hold fire until you see red flares, ready for execution. Provide overwatch for Task Force Hammer and spot targets for Punisher. Call 'em like you see 'em, Hitman, over and out."_

"Roger Kingpin. Wilco, out." The Ranger with the headset quickly began packing up his equipment, double-checking the .308 hunting rifle as he did so. "C'mon. We need to relocate, get a good shooting perch. It's coming down."

His partner hummed in agreement, bringing his own weapon to bear as he shuffled down off the perch they'd been on, heading further into the ruins. College Square proper would be a terrible place to try and make for, as Brotherhood patrols had taken over the area, and the entire town was now a staging area for the withdrawal.

The Ranger took one more glance to the north, as the hills seemed to loom over the Commonwealth, an almost idle threat akin to a beast gently peeking over a perch as it prepared to swallow up its prey.

"...still say its gonna be an early winter."

* * *

 **Corvega Assembly Plant**

 **Lexington**

Lexington, being a raider stronghold, was still too dangerous to attempt to move into. The fact that it was infested with feral Ghouls as well as the occasional Super Mutant raiding party meant that, after the slaughter wreaked on the Minutemen there last year, no one wanted anything to do with the place. But ever since the Prydwen had been shot down, Corvega had changed hands a dozen times between Brotherhood, Raiders, Gunners and Minutemen. Too difficult to hold onto for good, it currently hosted the attack force known as Task Force Hammer. Fully half of the Minuteman Regulars in the north backed by several teams of Militia, they constituted nearly a full battalion. On top of the roof, holed up in his command station, was none other than Colonel Preston Garvey, binoculars in hand as he watched Cambridge Police Station. Packed full of Brotherhood soldiers (nearly three hundred from recon reports and some estimate works) and with at least one Vertibird on the pad at all times (the Minutemen were still having trouble figuring out how many aircraft had survived) taking the fortified station would be a challenge unlike the fighting in the Boston Commons. There, the Minutemen had been dug into defense, playing to their strength. Here, the roles were reversed and the numbers almost even.

Preston adjusted the zoom screw gently, and his vision cleared, showing him the Minuteman force. Moving in from the north, Preston had split the attack amongst his three captains. While impossible to avoid being spotted by Brotherhood Vertibirds from a distance, the three forces were moving to surround Cambridge in order to reduce their footprint, force the Remnants to split their defense. He'd ordered his troops out into their assault vectors an hour ago, when the Ranger team had reported the updated information. The elite wilderness troops were in short supply these days to cover the whole Commonwealth, mostly the wilder northern sectors. But their hardiness and superior aim made up for low numbers, and armored dusters were being quickly distributed along with .50 caliber rifles, to those whom they could supply.

He pulled the binoculars up slightly. That had to be Captain Davis' force, moving straight south, towards College Square. The Square itself was a good defensive plaza, with several lanes defending the flank of the Station, forcing any potential attackers into a large, open killzone. Remnant positions and sentry turrets filled the inner structures of the Square, where marksmen with high-powered laser rifles were prepared to pick off any intruders that saw fit to intrude from the north.

To the east, Captain Anders would be moving to set up blocking positions. The buildings to the east provided good areas of approach for College Square and the Station itself, and would make any attacker turn straight into a killzone down the street. There was only one way to directly attack the station, but the General's plan relied on allowing the western approach to remain a viable option to retreat. To the west, past Greygarden, was open and rough country. Gunners, Raiders, Mutants and Ghouls infested this region, and so far as General Grayson was concerned a Remnant migration might do some good in culling the threats out there, while handing them the Cambridge Station. As such, Captain Rogersons' force was held in reserve at the plant, an emergency force to react to any problems that might come up.

"Force them out Garvey," Grayson had told him over the radio set. "We want that station, and Brandis already wants to leave. We just give them some motivation and a single route for escape, they'll leave. We cut them off, they'll just hunker down and fight to the last. That's not a fight we can win without taking huge losses."

Guns were set up at the outposts at Oberland Station and Hangman's Alley. While the former was primarily a farming community tradepost, the garrison there was their best position to launch ordnance into Boston proper. Hangman's Alley had elevated cannons, as they had to fire over nearby structures. Between these two, they hoped to give the Remnants a good reason to abandon their positions.

Preston watched the troops moving just a bit longer, trying to do the math in his head. The morning sunrise had to fight the mists, but it was still possible to see good distances. Remnant T-60s had visors that could see heat signatures, but how many were in the Square? How many snipers? The information the Rangers could send back was limited with just rifle scopes and binoculars, but it sounded like the area was well fortified according to Hitman. Garvey's view drifted over to a small station, just outside College Square. Already, Davis' men were throwing down sandbags and moving scrap around, fortifying the structure as quickly as they could. Engineers with welding torches began crafting cover out of the metal, and two Minutemen set up a WH-Mk. 22, belts of .50 caliber ammunition being laid on the station counter next to the mounted machine gun. Nearby, a Minuteman with a flamer adjusted something on his weapon, heavy combat armor plating strapped onto him covering almost every inch of his body, the stolen Synth combat helmet facemask allowing him to survive the flames he would incur.

He couldn't see Anders' men. All he could do was wait until the radio chirped again. Davis was going to be noticed in the next few minutes, whether by soldiers in the square or a Vertibird passing by. One way or another, however, this would be a fight to write history about.

* * *

 **Cambridge Police Station**

"Sorry state we're in, isn't it?"

Proctor Morgan Ingram had always seemed a force on her own. Almost singlehandedly, she'd held that Brotherhood's mechanical corps together while conducting maintenance and repairs to the Prydwyn at the same time. Her mechanics had struggled to keep pace with her, and she inspired them to keep up the pace. Without her, the Brotherhood couldn't have held Boston Airport. Liberty Prime wouldn't even have been possible. But now, the airport was Minuteman territory, and Liberty Prime scrap once again, being salvaged slowly by the General's engineers. It would take them decades to get anything out of it, but they seemed to have the time now.

She'd awakened, but couldn't talk over the last two days. Her ICU, guarded by Initiate Clark (the Remnants couldn't afford to ignore willing manpower, whatever his personal opinions) was in a corner of the makeshift medical ward. The cell bars separated into bays, in which several cots held Remnant soldiers, Initiates and Knights being attended to by those few with more medical knowledge than simply how to administer a stimpack or tourniquet. Given more than a few weeks, they might have had a real chance to recover and fortify. But that time was out now.

Ingram was a mess. She had burns covering her entire body, she'd taken multiple pieces of shrapnel, and several ribs were cracked. Her arms had been saved from being broken by her frame. But that was wrecked. She'd lost her left eye, most of her hair and her voice was scratchy to the point where she could only talk quietly. Brandis could sympathize. He was certain that when Straker and Grayson had found him in that bunker, he hadn't looked very good either.

Ingram shook her head, grunting at the pain. "Sorry state I'm in too," she near-whispered. "I heard the Prydwyn was lost with near all hands. Maxson's dead?"

"We can't confirm," the Paladin replied. "Our time searching the wreckage was short. Minutemen were closing in. Their damn boats got troops straight from the Castle to the Airport as soon as they were done sorting out our...counterattack."

"Genius move that," Ingram spat bitterly. "Who was the moron that ordered a strike of that stupidity? God, don't tell me it was you."

"No. I was a bit busy trying to avoid burning to death, being crushed by debris or shot. Our Ground Teams were almost wiped out in the aftermath. Paladin Rhys ordered every Vertibird within proximity to launch an immediate counterstrike."

Ingram was silent, running the numbers in her head as she tried to grasp what that implied. The number of Vertibirds that could have responded to such a call. With the Prydwyn sinking on the horizon, she couldn't think of a single Brotherhood Knight that wouldn't want revenge. She didn't want to know, honestly. She could blank the number from her head. But she asked anyway.

"How many?"

"Ten before I could stop them," Brandis said, and Ingram felt something coil, deep inside herself. "Half of them were full gunships. The rest held a lot of soldiers we could use now." A pause. "They knew we would attack. They had missile turrets on top of that central tower they built. Right where we'd fly in. Grayson was ready to kill us."

She needed a moment to process the loss. Combined with the losses sustained in the Battle of Boston Commons, the Battle of Croup Manor and skirmishing across the rest of the Commonwealth, it was a wonder any birds still flew. She swallowed heavily, still unable to really come to grips with this news on top of the word that near everyone in the Airport was dead.

"Who survived?"

"A small team of seven, led by Straker. She got out with a few wounded. Everyone else either died in their crashing birds, drowned nearby or were gunned down by the Minutemen. After everything stopped exploding, Grayson sent out hunter-killer teams. No one surrendered. I hear he shot Rhys himself."

Brandis let a tired sigh out, running a hand through his greying hair. He'd turned down one of the functional T-60s himself. After so long without, he'd learned how to make do in just a suit of combat armor, a skill many Knights forgot after being in plate for so long. The last two days, he'd gone without sleep trying to keep the station organized. The Minutemen had moved out of Starlight, occupying Lexington and the Corvega plant. Recon from his scouts and Birds told him they weren't fortifying the place, so they didn't intend to hold the zone. Smart move. But that only left one option.

"They've left us alone up until now. Scouting the area, taking potshots at our patrols. We got a few teams out west, lined up our next site. It's a bit of a trek. But we'll be ready to wait until help arrives." Deja vu, much?

Ingram frowned. It took Brandis a moment to realize, seeing as her face was wrapped in swaths of gauze.

"We're leaving?"

It was a natural question to ask, of course. The Paladin had just admitted that the Police Station was being watched, with fortifications already dug in, and most of the Remnants and their supplies were stationed here, including the wounded.

"We can't stay. The Minutemen have us surrounded, and we're in spitting distance of both Diamond City and their Northern Command. We're in a killzone, and if they want to really do us in, all it'll take is a few guns on top of Corvega. They're moving forces up on us right now to the north. We're going to start evacuating within the hour."

Ingram sighed, the sound from her ravaged throat sounding like someone running sandpaper down a door. For a moment, the two listened to the Police Station in motion, as Remnant soldiers rushed back and forth, preparing the evacuation that was supposed to kick off as soon as could be managed. What supplies they could take were being boxed and tucked into any pocket, pouch or pack that could be managed. Brandis was gambling heavily on moving quickly once they were underway. Unlike the Minutemen, the Remnants had no pack brahmin, a contingency they had never seen fit to require with their airpower. But most of the Vertibirds were going to be taking off with the wounded and critical systems and supplies like computers and mininukes, flying to Somerville Place and dropping off their cargo with the recon team and coming back. Assuming no birds were shot down, fully half of the Remnant force would be in the land convoy. There was no doubt, the more people that were evacuated, the fewer there were to defend the perimeter. They would have to leave, point blank. But out of the entire airfleet, they had seven aircraft left. Of those, one was a fully-armed gunship. At this point, Minutemen salvage efforts meant the Commonwealth matched (and would soon exceed) Remnant airpower with that factory of theirs that was spitting out whatever combat gear they needed. If its location had ever been found, Brandis didn't know, and no one here seemed to know either. A shame, for if they could find the installation and end the flood of weapons, ammunition, robots and now aircraft coming out, it would really tip the balance.

Brandis stood, reaching for his helmet as he did so.

"It's good to see you're stable again, Morgan. I'll look into seeing if we can get one of the frames modified for your use. Our Scribes are a bit overworked, but they're dedicated."

"One more thing," Ingram said, taking Brandis' wrist gently. At first, Brandis wondered if this was because she was just trying to get his attention, but a glance at the agony on her face, even with Med-X coursing through her system, told him it was all she could muster.

"You've got other Paladins under your command? Any of them giving you trouble?"

"Uh, no. To be honest, a lot of them are still in shock," Brandis shook his head. "I think when I started trying to get everyone together, they just accepted that I was in charge."

"Good. Then on my authority as last confirmed remaining Senior Officer of the Brotherhood of Steel, I hereby promote you to the rank of Sentinel." She smiled up at him, her burnt lips cracking. "I suppose it's just formality at this stage, but I don't want any doubt. Can't have one of your guys starting a mutiny once they get their heads on straight enough to lose them."

The Paladin, apparently Sentinel now, was floored. While battlefield promotions such as this were common, he'd never imagined he'd make the grade. Paladin was about as high as he'd imagined he'd make, and there hadn't been a Sentinel in the East Coast Chapter since Sarah Lyons' time. In retrospect, it made sense to promote him in the current crisis, though he'd never imagined keeping the role. At the time, staying in command was only to help the Brotherhood survive.

He tried to refuse. "Proctor, I'm not sure I'm suitable for this position. As you know, before the current conflict, I was on probationary service, assigned to security and under review. They expected me to require years to recover and-"

"And you took charge of a bad situation and got as many people here as you could. Spare me the modesty horsecrap, Brandis. Unless you can find me someone better, you're our best bet. I can't do a damn thing, I'm useless like this. And I'll be useless after. Can't really take to the field in a wheelchair, and that means I can't lead from the front. They need someone like that right now. So...go kick ass in the name of the Brotherhood, Sentinel."

For a moment, the two leaders merely took in the situation in the relative silence that Ingram's ICU cell afforded her. They, like the rest of the Remnants, had survived where so many had fallen. Ingram could barely believe that Maxson, Teagan, Quinlan, Kells, Cade and even Li on top of so many others were just gone. Her last memory was of the Prydwyn's hulk collapsing on top of her. Now almost everyone she knew was dead. Brandis had to be taking it especially hard…

Abruptly, their moment was interrupted as the ground shook.

* * *

"Artemis, we're being shelled! Repeat, we're being shelled!"

Knight Penelope Straker hadn't been in her suit or in College Square when the first shot had hit, but it only took her a second to dash to her suit of T-60, punching the release and leaping in. In moments, she had burst through the doors along with the flood of other soldiers sprinting towards the defense line. They only had a handful of suits remaining, constituting a few dozen out of over a hundred defenders. Her own suit, beautifully painted in Knight's heraldry with a stylized shark on each thigh, just like on her own combat armor. For a time, she'd had her own fast attack squadron, used to address immediate issues; Shark Pack.

She was one of three Sharks remaining.

"Sharks, tell me you're up there!" she bellowed into her radio, moving down the street only to take a bullet in her pauldron. The storm of fire here was thick, and while the Remnants were mostly firing back laser bolts the return of hard rounds laced with lasers both red and blue drowned it out. The Minutemen had to have a large force out there, shooting in from outside the buildings.

" _Roger that, Knight! I've got Shark 3 here with me, we're holding on top of the diner!"_

Near her, a Remnant Knight in combat armor took a round that tore out his throat, and he fell gagging on his own blood. A shell landed nearby, blasting apart a ruined bus and killing two more. Atop a building, a Remnant missile trooper loaded his weapon, waiting for a target before letting the rocket go. Before it was even halfway to target, her loader had reached up and slotted a new shell into position. More bullets pinged off Straker's armor, and she had to duck behind a ruined car, firing back with her own rifle over the top, lest she take a round in a joint and deal lethal damage.

"Artemis, come in!" she hollered as another shell landed in a building full of Remnant soldiers, collapsing the structure down on top of them.

" _I'm here, had to run up from the medical ward! It's chaos over here, report over!"_

Finally, Brandis had reached his command station.

"We're taking long range artillery fire, and there's a force posted to the north, over!"

" _Dammit. Just heard from Shortsword. There's an enemy force posted to the east. We're blocked in."_

Straker howled in frustration, though that might also be the blast of LMG fire that had just taken her in the head. Her armor's damage control blared at her, and she saw that her helmet's integrity had been reduced to 55 percent. Brilliant.

She stood, and her helmet's sensors picked out pinpricks in the distance. The Minutemen she could see were firing from long range, dug in just outside the Square. She put one of them in her sights, firing several shots and feeling a thrill as her target fell, though she noted another ran up to drag his comrade into cover. She hissed, but then had to duck as a shot fired from a grenade launcher came arcing in, blasting off a wall nearby.

"Artemis, Shark-actual! We're getting murdered down here! What are your orders, over!"

" _Shark-actual, I'm initiating Plan Somerville. How much time can you give me, over?"_

Plan Somerville. She and Paladin Brandis had spoken of the need for evacuation at some point in the near future, but it was always assumed to be in stages, getting the wounded and non-combatant personnel out first with as many supplies as they could carry. To initiate the withdrawal just as the shooting had started would be almost impossible.

"Artemis, be advised. That Plan might not be feasible at this current time! We have no avenue of withdrawal, over!"

" _We just need time. The west is open, Straker."_

The west. That couldn't be a coincidence, and Brandis had to know she'd realize that. Grayson and Garvey weren't idiots, so leaving the west open before initiating the attack had to have been a message. One the Remnant leadership heard all too well.

"How much time do you need?"

" _How much can you give me? I've already got two medivac birds away, six more trips to go."_

Two of those birds would have to come back for the wounded. The others would take whoever else they could. Everyone else would have to start moving on foot.

A roar emanated from the sky, and Straker turned her head upwards to spot their last gunship Mutant Slayer soar by, side mounted laser gatlings spitting out blistering storms of red bolts. It soard past the Square, moving in a wide circle avoiding the overpass. Heavy machine gun fire blistered from the Corvega plant in the distance, but the helicopter's armor seemed to take the brace, tilting to let a handful of missiles away, bombing the positions to the north. Another missile arced up out of the smoke, chasing the Vertibird, but Slayer banked sharply, letting the shot go wide. Clearly, the Minutemen didn't have computer trackers as standard across their forces. Slayer let off several more laser volleys before retreating into the distance, but Straker could hear fire off to the east seconds later.

That was her opening.

"Artemis, I'll get back to you."

She took two steps, triggering the jetpack she had strapped to her back. A battlefield reward for killing a Behemoth, the pack spouted smoke, carrying the full weight of her armor up and over the car wreckage she'd been using as cover. The small diner zoomed up into her view as she rocketed towards it, slamming into the rooftop. Amazingly, the battered structure held under her impact, and she rushed to the barricade alongside her other two sharks.

Knight Varley glanced over at Straker, and she knew it was him by the grinning shark motif he had spray painted onto his helmet. He nodded before standing again, cocking his arm back before chucking the plasma grenade he'd been priming, returning to the gatling laser in his hands. He'd turned off his radio, but even over the battle and the humming of the heavy laser, she could hear the curses and insults he howled into his helm.

Knight Hardin was more composed. He turned to Straker and tossed her a grenade of his own before returning to taking potshots at Minutemen in the distance.

"Good to see you, ma'am."

Straker threw the grenade herself, not as far as Varley had but a respectable distance, though the smoke and chaos were both so intense she couldn't tell if it did much of anything. She let a few shots off through the smoke, grinning as she heard the strangled cry of a falling Minuteman. She too ducked, taking Hardin's shoulder with her.

"Brandis is sounding the fallback! We've got a corridor to the west, and he's taking it!"

Hardin was quiet for a moment, and she could hear the gears working in the Knight's head. Hardin had always been the smarter of her Sharks, and was her backup tactician during their tour here in the Commonwealth. He worked out all the details much faster than Straker herself had, and come to the same conclusion.

"What if it's a trap?"

But Straker, now committed, shook her head.

"If they wanted us dead, they could just bomb us until the area's rubble! They want the station, and they'd like it without too many losses!"

"Gonna have to disappoint them on that!" Varley howled, now back on the net. Even still, the man was breathing hard and fast. Straker liked a good fight, but Varley lived for battle, had no better joy than combat. Straker was a bit afraid that he might even get off on it, but so far it just seemed like the Knight was always battle hungry. She reached over, knocking him on the arm to get his attention. The heavy Shark stopped firing briefly to glance down, almost quizzically, and she brought a hand up to indicate he needed to watch her.

"Brandis needs time. They're evacing the wounded, and the Slayer's not going to be able to stay forever!" As she spoke, the gunship in question soared past, strafing the Minuteman lines with a quick burst before pulling away like a fast attack plane in a Pre-War battle. The response fire thickened. "We have to disrupt and delay the Minutemen if we're going to give the station enough time to empty!"

"How long until he starts?" Hardin asked, and Straker pointed at a line of structures on the south side, previously filled with Remnant soldiers, now emptying out as Knights and Initiates provided supporting fire, snipers and automated defenses remaining to do what damage they could.

"Now! They're going to erect defensive positions around the station so the convoy can get through!"

Overhead, a medivac vertibird spun around in an arc, the pilot apparently trying to avoid something on the ground, and was punished as a missile streaked out from Corvega. Straker could only watch in horror as the shot soared by, her Sharks helpless to stop the projectile as it smashed into the Vertibird's cockpit. The aircraft tilted, foundering in the sky before an engine pod detonated, and the helicopter began to lurch into a death spiral, soaring down towards the river whose name time had forgotten. As if in slow motion, she watched the craft smash into the opposite bank, its frame brewing up. She couldn't tell from here if there were survivors, but she hoped they got out before response teams from Oberland arrived.

"Well, there's one reason to get moving," Hardin muttered dryly. Varley appeared to agree, but his response was once more muted as he howled within his helmet, the laser gatling howling as he blasted down towards the Minutemen below. Straker stood, and her sensors told her exactly where the enemy was, positioned just to the north. Another shell detonated nearby, and she hollered "Shark Pack, move to assault positions! We're jumping to that rooftop!"

The building she'd designated had been left empty to facilitate a killzone, and was now their target for launch. Swiftly, all three Sharks boosted up to the top of the building, and for a moment the incoming fire slackened as they left the storm of hard rounds and occasional lasers. Here, free in the air, Straker felt that buzzing grind of adrenaline in the back of her skull. Aside from a Vertibird, this was the closest she would come to achieving flight in her life. Even the Prydwyn had felt less like flying and more like being on a moving building. But here, blasting towards the abandoned tenement, she felt more alive than ever before.

The Sharks all smashed down, and she could hear Varley whooping as he raced to the rooftop, resuming his barrage. He apparently felt the same way, and even Hardin couldn't hide the quickened breath he had. The Shark Pack had been among the few of the Brotherhood gifted jetpacks, and now they might be the only ones left with the valuable tech. Straker intended to keep that up.

"Again!" she yelled, racing for the edge as she watched her charge meter build slowly. Too impatient to wait for the reserve to fill, she made a decision, and simply bulled her way over the roof, plummeting towards the street.

The Minuteman she landed on never saw the mass coming. It looked like he'd been moving from one piece of cover to the other, reloading his rifle as he went. But when Straker's full weight and velocity hit him, the collision reduced the soldier to a blast of red paste and blue cloth across the ruined street, painting the front of her armor in viscera and gore. Nearby, two Minutemen stumbled away, staring over at her with wide, horrified eyes. She didn't give these two time to react, reaching out and grabbing one's head and crushing it with a metal hand, feeling his skull splinter and crumble and crack under her fingers as brains and blood seeped out. The other she took by the throat, holding him up in the air as the man struggled. To his credit, he reacted quickly, drawing what looked like a Browning Ultra-Power. Three 9mm rounds struck her helmet, driving her armor integrity further and further down before she brought her rifle around, shoving the barrel under the Minuteman's armor and pulling the trigger, flash broiling his guts.

Next to her, Varley landed, howling with laughter.

"That's the way, boss!" he hollered, charging forward and flattening at least four before he turned his gatling laser on the nearest defensive position, blasting away flesh, sandbags and metal. Hardin landed near as well, putting two shots into a Minuteman nearby before buttstroking a second.

Straker turned forwards, intending to press the attack, only to be greeted by a sight that made every alarm in her helmet blare and her eyes widen to saucers. An Assaultron, painted dark blue and wielding an electrified sword on each arm, was charging out of the smoke. Sparks danced off its hull, and that armor looked thick, so thick she wondered how it moved so damn fast. And then it was upon her, one arm slicing down as the other chopped from the side. Straker had a moment to note the Minuteman insignia on its chest before she grabbed the arm coming down, blocking the other by moving closer in and rendering the strike impotent. Electricity shot down her suit, and even with the conductive lining she could feel some of the amps dancing through her. She roared, reaching up and clamping her fist down on the Assaultron's head, squeezing as hard as she could. The robot burbled in confusion before smacking Straker again, this time burying the edge in the Knight's shoulder while the other arm flailed around, trying to find purchase. Straker began to shoving, physically driving the robot back before she brought her other hand to mechanical torso, pulling and yanking until the head finally ripped away, and the now headless torso collapsed. She glanced at the still sparking head before tossing it away. It was time to move on to her next target.

* * *

The evacuation was proceeding. Sentinel Brandis had mostly stayed in his command room, coordinating both the defense and the retreat. Might as well call it what it was. They were abandoning the station. Minutes in the defense, and Brandis knew they were outmatched. Shells pounded College Square and the station yard, and incoming fire had killed a score of defenders. A medivac was down, and his dispatched recovery team had yet to report back. Mutant Slayer was taking heavy damage, and it was only a matter of time before she was overwhelmed.

They were holding on, just barely. But the Minutemen not only matched them in numbers, but also firepower and tenacity. Most of what they were facing were Regulars. Their captains were holding back the Militia from the worst of the fighting. Brandis had heard reports of Regulars continuing to fight even as buildings collapsed around them. They wouldn't break off this attack.

Another shell smashed into the station itself, making the structure rumble. The walls held, but Brandis could hear the bricks crack outside, metal supports groaning.

"Get that bird off the pad, now!" he snapped to his radio operator, and the Scribe hurriedly yelled "Saber 1, you are clear to go! Advise you take off immediately!"

That was the last bird, lifting off with the Proctor and most serious wounded. Two birds were already returning, but with the loss of one of their craft, the Remnants were even more hard pressed to keep going. Brandis had already ordered a third bird to return, but that would be stretching their supplies and support. Those Vertibirds wouldn't have sufficient cover to keep them safe, and the ground column had to get moving now. College Square was still being evacuated, most of the defenders out and away. Straker and her Shark Pack had gotten the idiot idea in their heads to smash right into the northern Minuteman lines, and while the enemy was certainly disrupted, the Sharks were outnumbered ten to one.

"Paladin-I mean Sentinel!" Paladin Meyers said. "A mortar shell landed near the gates! We've got at least five KIA and a half-dozen wounded!"

"Dammit! Tell the survivors to strip the dead of their supplies and tags, grab the wounded and continue mission! We've got absolutely no room to stop!"

"Sentinel, Slayer reports she's down to her lasers! Missiles are bingo!" hollered one of the Scribes controlling air traffic.

"Get her to check on that recovery team! I need answers and they may need support!"

And on. For what seemed like an eternity to him, he tried to hold on to his collapsing line, while shells landed around the Police Station, rattling window panes and sending soldiers stumbling around.

Abruptly, a yell from the staircase. One of the Knights on the rooftop rushed over to him.

"Sentinel! Another Minuteman force from Corvega!"

Brandis cursed, and asked how large the new force was. He was told it was difficult to get a number with the fog, but at least thirty, with attack dogs and robots.

They were out of time.

Brandis stalked to the window looking out into the street to the south. Just across the river, he could spy tracers and lasers trading around the Beantown Brewery. Hell, this close up, a few teams of Minutemen had approached. He could spy a trio of power armored Enforcers harassing the barricades, all three of them spraying the gates with miniguns and retreating to cover when the Remnants brought out response forces, a volley of launched grenades beating back the Knights and Initiates who tied to counter..

"Get Shark Pack back here, before they're smashed," Brandis said, stepping over to a bag he'd packed nearby, a military grade rucksack that he hefted up onto his back. "How many more to evacuate?"

"The last three groups are on the pad," said Paladin Meyers. "Everyone else in the ground column is either part of the defense or on their way out. No response from Greygarden, but the recovery team at Beantown reports taking fire from the south."

"Keep up the evacuation. Make sure those birds get away, at least. Then burn whatever you can't carry and get out."

"Sentinel? Where are you going?"

Brandis picked up his helmet, flipping it around and sliding it onto his head, snapping the facemask into place and sliding his goggles down.

"Radio me when we're about to collapse," he said simply, before he stepped out the doors, Survivor's Special in hand.

* * *

Scribe Haylen knew she didn't belong here. When she had first come out here with Paladin Danse, Knight Rhs, Keane, Worwick, Brach, Straker and Dawes, she had done so with a purpose. When the Prydwyn had arrived she'd been so full of pride. Everything had seemed to go so right. Like Elder Maxson had described. But sitting alone in the garage of the Station, listening to the artillery pounding the ground, the whine of lasers, the chatter of automatic weapons, she couldn't see that anymore. The Brotherhood of Steel's grand purpose, dashed to the ground. Their mighty airship reduced to burned scrap on an ancient runway. Elder Maxson was dead. Knights had extorted and oppressed the innocent in the name of the mission. Now they were running to the edge of the Commonwealth, away from the very people they'd sworn to save. Had she judged the Brotherhood so wrong? Had they strayed from their mission? Or had she been so colored by how she'd seen them in the Capital Wasteland that she'd ignored their true nature? She didn't know anymore.

Maybe it all started to go wrong when Maxson ordered Straker to kill Danse. Maybe when General Grayson had tried to intervene and talk Danse out of the Commonwealth. Haylen had only heard of what happened in the aftermath, but apparently Straker had put her rifle to the back of the General's head, even with three veteran Minutemen aiming shotguns at her back. Somehow, everyone had walked away. But Danse was proclaimed dead. Maxson and Grayson had a tension thick as concrete between them. And Straker had been given her Shark Pack while her promotion of Paladin was being considered among the Proctors.

Or maybe when Grayson blew up the Institute. Or when Maxson had demanded the Minutemen turn over all artillery, lasers, robots and Vertibirds. Maybe that's when it all fell apart.

But Melissa Haylen didn't know. All she knew was that the Remants were falling back. And the Brotherhood had failed here. And her friends were dead. Now, she was betraying her order.

She reached behind the wrecked police car, tugging a backpack out and checking the contents. Ever since Paladin Danse had been declared an enemy, she'd gotten the idea that looking out for herself might be a good idea. Now, that had finally come full circle. She rifled through the spare wastelander clothes she'd picked up, the purified water, rations, the 10mm pistol she'd acquired. Quickly, she tugged her fatigues off, electing to keep the hood and goggles. They'd be useful under the blistering sun. Instead, she changed into a shirt and coat, turning to the open door. Outside, the battle raged, but she knew that the west was open. All she had to do was go north from there, and the Commonwealth was open to her.

Haylen checked the safety on her pistol, chambered a round, holstered it, then set out.

* * *

The Minutemen were endless. She had to have killed at least a dozen, yet the incoming fire never slackened. Now forced back into a collapsing building, Straker wondered if perhaps there had been enough time already.

"INCOMING!" yelled Hardin, just as another grenade shot through the window, detonating off the opposite wall. Outside, a mortar shell detonated just nearby, turning a wrecked bus into a cloud of flying shrapnel. Varley stepped up, firing a few shots before a brace of shots smacked him in the shoulder, helmet and chest. He staggered back, howling in pain. Straker, on the second floor, had drawn her sidearm, firing down into the crowd below. Her target, a Minteman Enforcer, stumbled a bit before straightening again and firing back up at her, the Shrike .308 machine gun stuttering. She cursed, ducking back down again.

"Shark 2! Any more explosives?"

"Out, Actual! Left flank is being enveloped!"

She jerked back out. It was true, there was another team of Minutemen dashing into position, trying to come down one of the side lanes. Shark Pack was being fenced in, and it was only a matter of time before the hammer came down.

Another mortar shell arced in, landing just in front of their shelter. Straker felt the blast rattle her armor and bones, and her integrity meter dipped even lower. Her arms, legs and helmet were all blaring between 10 and 20 percent. Their extra mobility was made useless by overwhelming numbers. And if Straker was almost out of fusion packs, so were her men.

She returned to the radio as another high-caliber round soared past. Some asshole sniper out there was taking potshots at them, and none of them could find the bastard.

"Artemis, this is Shark Actual! Come in, dammit!"

Static returned to her. Down in the street, a junkbot made up of the treads of a robobrain carrying the torso of a sentry bot and a terrifying set of nailguns, rolled in front of a Minuteman fireteam. With their bullet catcher in place, these Minutemen set up behind a pile of rubble, and one of them she spotted with a weapon that glowed orange. With heavy plate armor and a facemask vaguely looking like a skull, the Fire soldier stepped out, his flamer blasting a tongue of fire as he went. The lower floor was enveloped in flame, and while Varley merely yelled in rage and frustration, Hardin screamed. His cries pierced Straker, and she stepped back to the stairwell to watch as the armored figure of her Knight stumbled backwards, his plate and seals on fire. But from his neck spouted more flames, and she realized with dread that some of his seals must have been punctured or damaged, and she was literally watching him burn alive.

Without hesitation, she sprinted back to the window, triggering her jetpack and flying up into the air. While most of the Minutemen down below saw her coming and scattered, the flame bastard was getting ready to fire another stream. She landed right on top of him, the flamer and tank full of napalm both detonating under her boots in spectacular fashion. She turned, illuminated by the flames as the Minutemen and junkbot paused only a moment and continued firing on her. But she didn't care, even as she felt bullets finally penetrate her battered plate and tear at her flesh.

Straker dashed forward, grabbing one man by the head and twisting savagely, feeling his neck snap. She shot the next one in the face, and while he was probably dead with the first bolt, she wanted to make sure and shot him twice more. The bot came up into her view, and she smashed one arm aside, even as she felt the other slam a nail into her thigh. She roared inside of her helmet, grabbing the bot at the shoulders and pulling as hard as she could. When she could hear the scream of hydraulics but couldn't rip the limbs off, she dashed forward, smashing the torso repeatedly, until a plate buckled and she dove both of her metal hands inside, ripping out robotics guts left and right. In seconds, the junkbot died, crumbling in on itself before she drew her sidearm again, blasting its faceplate into molten scrap.

She turned to the last two Minutemen, both of whom had taken the chance to reload, and were watching her carefully. She pushed the bot over, taking two steps to the left as it continued sparking.

"Run...worms," she said simply, but her helmet's audio speakers must have been damaged. Instead of her own voice, she heard something dark and twisted, like a Deathclaw that had learned to speak. For a moment, both of the Minutemen looked like they were going to do just that.

But before anyone could react, the junkbot's fusion core detonated.

* * *

 **Near Gwinnett Restaurant**

 **South Boston Military Zone**

When the Minutemen had reclaimed the Castle, one of the first things done was to sweep through the surrounding neighborhoods, cleansing every site of Super Mutants, Raiders and Mirelurks. While none of these areas were heavily infested by themselves, the entire block had turned into a free-fire zone, fires burning in the distance while the Castle's artillery had boomed endlessly, shelling the streets when blue smoke arose. And it drifted from every lane. All five guns had pounded the area over and over again. Piper remembered seeing the fires from the walls, listening to the fighting from a distance. Cait had been out there, in the fight, while Curie had stayed behind administering aid to wounded Minutemen dragged back to the fortress.

Now, as the three women accompanied the caravan through the ruined streets, the place was far safer than it had been in the past century. The police station was now a Minuteman outpost, Andrew Station cleaned up, fortified and expanded upon to act as a gateway into the area, and the Gwinnett restaurant an aide station and trade post. While the factories and brewery were still abandoned save for scavenging parties pulling out scrap, the mutants in the area had been burned out. South Boston was Commonwealth Minuteman territory.

That's why Piper Wright took the chance to tug her notebook out, scribbling a few notes down. While she would normally never take the risk of letting the Commonwealth be responsible for her safety, here it was different. Bar the occasional Mirelurk crawling out of the sea, this region of structures were mostly safe, a necessity in order to allow supply convoys to reach the Minutemen headquarters. Safety out in the wastes was a rare thing, and she abused the liberty.

"Shaun," she suddenly called out, and after only a moment there was a scampering of feet from around a nearby pack brahmin. Ducking past a Minuteman guard and one of the handlers, Shaun Grayson was suddenly at her side. Give him credit where it was due, the General's son was responsible. Sure, in Diamond City, he was a bit of a prankster, stayed up with Nat to spin out various plots, abused his knowledge of technology to cause Mister Zwicky's projector to only ever show slides from old Grognak cartoons and had tried to fake his age by presenting an ID card that had made Vadim laugh the kid out of the Dugout Inn…

Actually, come to think of it, the kid was pretty high risk. About the only thing Piper could say in his defense was he never did anything to put himself or anyone else in danger. She mentally rolled her eyes.

In the present, she reached into her bag, tugging out a small tin of Cram. While bread and utensils were rare, the meat itself was bland enough to be enjoyable on its own.

"If your dad asks, you ate this two hours ago."

"You bet, Miss Wright," Shaun agreed, taking the tin and cracking the top without hesitation. Okay, another point in the kid's favor. Whenever Piper screwed up, he always seemed ready to help her with damage control. In this case, forgetting to give Shaun his lunch.

"Thanks kiddo. I owe you one."

"Don't worry. I'll figure out how to get you back."

The eleven year old smirked through his quick meal, and Piper scowled as she once more reconsidered her opinion of him. Forget it, he was just like his father, an absolute devil in disguise.

"I'm starting to feel like this relationship is more loan shark and victim. Go on, get out of here!"

With that, Shaun took his can of processed meat and trotted ahead, exploring some of the ruins at a safe distance, where the nearby guard could unsling his shotgun and cover the boy. He was a scrounger that one, like Blue had been. Always poking around for Pre-War tech. He liked visiting the factory, where Sturges and Isabel worked on the Minutemen robotics fleet and assembly lines for so much of their hardware. Piper listened to him and Nat play in the Publick's shop, reading old comics and trying to figure out how to identify a synth. They'd become partners in crime, and when they weren't trying to push papers onto Diamond City residents, they were off getting into trouble together, much to Diamond City Security's consternation.

"You are very good with children, Mademoiselle Piper," said an accented voice nearby, and Piper didn't even have to look up from her notepad to know Curie had stepped over to her. Dressed in her Minuteman blues and medical kit, Curie both at once blended into the ranks of soldiers around her and stood apart with her well-sculpted features. Ever since her recovery from Vault 81 and transfer to a human body (and hadn't that been a trip when the beautiful woman had stepped into the Publick with Blue, for multiple reasons) Curie had always done her best to both advance her research and make friends with the figures in her life. Piper had to admit, over the last few months Curie had shown real personality and growth, and if you had told her the delightful and outgoing young woman in her place had once been a robot, Piper wouldn't have believed them.

"Had to be. Nat's just like him," Piper replied, scribbling one last note before glancing over in Shaun's direction. While Shaun was watched out for by the whole caravan, Blue had entrusted her specifically to watch out for his son, and she would be damned if she'd let that man down.

That man...aside from Preston, she'd known Hal Grayson the longest. She'd only found out his name by accident one time, but insisted on calling him by the nickname she'd given him. At times, he acted like it annoyed him, but she'd caught that spark in his eye that said he was just fine with their back and forth. Such a mystery, her situation. She knew exactly what she wanted from him...or she thought she did. But she always had trouble saying it out loud. There was no way he felt the same way for her. She was loud, pushy, a snoop and an instigator. And he was...a hero, put plainly. Why would someone like that want someone like her to be their partner?

"Of course," Curie continued, snapping Piper out of her self-punishing spiral again. "I had forgotten. Your young sibling is quite delightful as well."

"You sure we're talking about the same girl? Because I've had Security threaten to turn lockup into 'the Wright Suite' before."

"Pardon?"

Piper chuckled. "Long story. You wouldn't get it."

"Ah, of course. I must apologize." They walked down the ruined street in silence for a few moments more, the silence almost unnatural to many in the caravan. Silence in the Commonwealth meant you were either truly alone (not a good thing in and of itself) or something terrifying was stalking you (definitely bad).

"I hate to bother you, Piper. But there is something I wished to ask you," Curie continued, and Piper glanced up from her pad to glance at the synth girl. Even with Curie's lack of social skills and ability to project, something in her voice said she was nervous to bring up what was on her mind. After a second, Piper tucked away pad and pencil.

"Okay, I'm all ears. Shoot."

"It is just...you have always been so good at being direct. At saying what is one your mind," Curie said, looking down and scratching at something invisible on her jacket. Piper for the most part agreed with that statement, up to the point where she constantly got in trouble over it. Though, of course, there was one thing she couldn't bring herself to say. But she snapped out of that line of thinking before she got wrapped up once more.

"It can be hard, I suppose. I kinda grew into it, had to challenge a lot of people who didn't want to hear what I had to say." She glanced to the medic. "Why? You having trouble with someone?"

"Oh, no not someone. Well, yes. I mean...it is difficult to say." Curie fidgeted, a hand reaching to her belt and gently flexing around the grip of her pistol, an action Piper found difficult to argue with. Finally, Curie looked up at Piper, her resolve apparently reinforced. "I am having trouble saying something to someone. I always feel these...feelings for this person, and I feel them so strongly, I feel like my chest is too small, and is about to burst. But every time I get the chance to say it, I always...what is the word? Lose my nerve?"

Piper smirked, the picture finally dawning on her. "Do you have a crush on someone? Is that what this is about?"

"A crush? Why would I want to hurt him, he has done nothing wrong to me."

She clearly didn't get it. Piper chuckled, scolding herself as she remembered this girl was extremely literal and naive. The cost of suddenly becoming a human adult. Piper pondered the situation for a moment before she decided to plunge onwards. She had a little experience with this situation, and Curie shouldn't have to miss out on such an opportunity herself.

"If you find yourself attracted to someone, and you feel like you have a good time with them, they might like you back," Piper explained. "Does he like you back? Who is he?"

"Oh! Non, I shouldn't say!" Curie blushed, glancing away and thinking for a moment before she nodded and replied "Oui. He has a hard time smiling, so many unfortunate things have happened. But when we talk, he seems to smile even more, and he says such nice things to me. I despair that my research will get nowhere, and he assures me that my task is large, and I have plenty of time to complete it. He…" Here, the blush deepened, crimson taking up her face as she seemed to picture her desired man. "He is very good looking."

"Is he? Sounds like quite the catch," Piper said, smiling back as she went through her head trying to figure out who exactly Curie was talking about. She was the head medic at the Castle, and as such interacted with a lot of people. To make matters worse, she constantly traveled to settlements, tending to wounds and curing diseases and ailments. So who among this sea was Curie's crush?

Piper tried to push on with her advise. "Well, if he hasn't said anything, sounds like an opening to me. Tell him you want to spend more time with him. Get him something he likes, let him know you like him. Just step forward, and-"

"Get him in bed with ye!"

Piper almost jumped out of her skin, her head snapping around as their conversation appeared to have picked up another speaker. Cait had taken it upon herself to step over, and behind her mirrored trooper shades, Piper could see that the brawler was smirking, with very dirty intentions.

"Every woman knows the easiest way te git a man to ye is just lure 'im in 'tween yer legs!" she boomed, wrapping a muscled, bare arm around Curies' shoulders. After her cleansing in Vault 95, Cait had put on muscle mass with startling speed, until her shoulders bulged and her biceps strained at any shirt. The Irish lass loved it, and made a show of challenging as many strong looking men as she could to arm wrestling contests in every bar she went. While she may look down on organizations like the Minutemen, their smashing of the Institute and Brotherhood had softened her critique quite significantly. With Blue's advise, Cait had come around to the idea of serving the Minutemen, an organization that gave her some real structure in her newly freed life. Of course, she took that all in her own stride. She refused to wear the uniform, preferring her own clothes under Minutemen combat armor, which she had decorated herself with various slogans, graffitis, a shamrock on the back plate and her kneepads. She did like the hat, thought.

Cait shrugged the combat shotgun off her shoulder, pulling a very startled Curie closer.

"There's something 'bout sex no man can resist! You get 'im in yer bed and give him a good night's fuck, there's no way he'll miss your point!" The freckled redhead grinned, almost leering into Curie's face. "Even an egghead like you can't mess that up! Ye've got the looks, darlin! An' I know you've got...other assets."

"Cait, sex doesn't fix everything," Piper pointed out, gaining the brawler's attention. "Curie's barely able to talk to this guy, and you're telling her to seduce him?"

"Jaysus, good point. Fuck, fine. If gettin' 'im in bed is too much, just lay a big ol' kiss on the bastard next time ye see 'im. It's a step down, but ye can't go wrong with somethin' that can be called 'sweet and nice'."

Cait let go of Curie, and proceeded to mime kissing noises, laughing her head off. Piper and Curie glanced at each other, both a little perturbed by their traveling companions' behaviour.

Abruptly, Shaun let out a yell nearby. So caught up in their conversation, the three women had forgotten about the boy, and Shaun came leaping out of a nearby building, a military grade circuit board in hand as a bedraggled, skinless mongrel followed, barking and snarling as it tried to catch up to and kill him. The Minuteman guard cursed, bringing his shotgun up to his shoulder and pulling the trigger, but the first blast of buckshot slammed into the wall next to the dog, and as he worked the pump the guard swore again. His weapon had jammed.

Everyone leapt to, grabbing weapons and bringing them to bear. But before anyone (even Cait, with her shotgun in hand already) could bring their weapon up (which would probably have been too late) a pair of cracks cut through the still air, and the mongrel fell to the ruined street, two bullet wounds a thumbs' distance apart in its chest.

Piper, holding her MP10 SMG in one hand, gestured frantically for Shaun to come over. He did, hiding partially behind her and staring at the dog that had almost killed him, but aside from a quickening of breath, he didn't seem to be hurt or badly shaken up.

Everyone was staring at Curie, smoking 10mm pistol in hand, her shooter's stance perfect. Piper knew she'd taken shooting lessons from both the General and Colonel Shaw, and she appeared to have perfectly absorbed those lessons.

The guard stepped over to the mongrel, poking it with the muzzle of his shotgun. Death confirmed, the caravan continued on. The Castle was within sight.

* * *

The Castle had received quite a lot of improvements since the Minutemen had taken it back. The walls had been repaired and strengthened, and while not quite as strong as they had been upon first construction, new concrete blocks and reinforced steel panels had gone a long way to filling in the holes. The tops of the walls had received new safety railings, with defensive ramparts and mounted heavy weapons. Every one of the towers were fitted with heavy mortars, and new ramps led down into the courtyard from three sides instead of just the one. The enormous gap in the northern wall had been reformed into a massive gate, with gatehouses on each side.

To get to the front gate, the caravan had to thread their way past a handful of trenches and barbed wire fences. Minutemen standing at guard stood down, guiding them through the network of fortifications. The main gates stood open during the day, and the sign they strode under simply had the Minuteman logo painted on it. One of the lookouts leaned over a railing jeering down at the caravan.

"Hey, Jethro! Still stuck with the damn brahmin, eh? Well, that's fine, we don't want your ugly ass round here anyway."

The guard, Jethro, slung his M199 over a shoulder before he called back "Works for me. Least I get to go tap your sister at Oberland!"

"'Ey, motherfucker, you stay away from my sister, else I'll skin you alive!"

The caravan passed inside, where the brahmin were taken off to a series of feed troughs and unloaded. After feeding and rubdown, these pack animals would be released to the far south, where they would graze on the coastal grass.

" _Good afternoon, Minutemen! It is 3 pm, nothing to report. Stay safe out there!"_

That wasn't technically true. Everyone knew that the battle for the Cambridge Police Station had been raging up north. While the fight should be long over by now, the reports had yet to be released, though rumors were circulating. Supposedly, the station had needed to be pounded flat before the Minutemen moved in and captured it bloodlessly, as the Remnants had turned tail and run at the first sign of trouble. Other sources stated it had been a bloodbath that had consumed countless lives, making the streets of Cambridge run red with blood. Yet more rumors told of a single woman who had torn into Minuteman ranks, laying waste single-handedly to the entire attack force. The most outlandish said that Paladin Brandis had been executed and every Remnant vertibird destroyed.

But Piper knew the danger of rumors. They all held some shred of truth, but were also wildly varied in how much they did. From the total picture, for example, she could tell Cambridge had been bloody on both sides, but a win regardless. Or, so she assumed.

Piper stepped over to Shaun, gave him a last checkover, reminded him to drop his backpack off before running down to the lake in order to salvage scrap from the crashed vertibirds, and to stay away from the minefields. After today's encounter, she doubted he'd stray.

Afterwards, she saw to her own pack, dropping it next to the door to the Barracks level. She still needed to be assigned to a bunk, and for now she could leave it while she grabbed a bite to eat and check in with Blue. The Mess Hall was well-stocked, and constantly had Minutemen filing through. For Piper herself, she grabbed a simple radstag sandwich, with a Nuka-Cola and a few Iguana bits on the side (those always tasted a bit odd, but they went with everything). After that, it was back to the story, working through her jumble of notes in an effort to report on the rise of Upper Stands corruption in the wake of Mayor McDonough's reveal as a synth agent and execution by the General of the Minutemen. Ever since the Mayor had been exposed, the subject of approaching a new mayoral election had been a source of extreme controversy in Diamond City, especially among the suddenly very concerned Upper Stands aristocrats. While business leaders like Ann Codman swore that the Mayoral position had proven to be weak and open to corruption. How very convenient that with a lack of a mayor, control of Diamond City fell to the city council. Which mostly consisted of residents from the Upper Stands.

Nearby, Curie had already gotten started on her medical evaluations, checking with the base physician Doc Weathers. As a traveling wasteland doc, Weathers sold his expertise to travelers and settlements, but given how most of the Commonwealth supported the Minutemen, the joke became that the Doc was a Minuteman doctor in all aspects that were important. During his visits to the Castle, if Curie was on the road Weathers would often stick around just long enough for the synth medic to return, and the two would share information before the wasteland doc would leave once more. Thus the cycle continued.

Cait was in the yard as well, making fun of several Minutemen exercising in the off-time. While some of the troopers had set up an impressive amount of weights on a bar, Cait had simply stepped up and, after slotting even more plates on, proceeded to break everyone else's rep count while laughing her head off.

Nearby, Grace and Dogmeat scratched at the dirt, looking for something. Other guard dogs were out with their Minuteman handlers, but a few of them were here, following their pack leaders and watching the two strange companions dig for who knew what.

Around the fortress, Minutemen went about their duties. Whether pressing ammunition, maintaining their equipment, undergoing last-minute briefings, on guard duty or even in the base's attached bar on the east side docks (the Canteen was quite popular) they had plenty to do. There was only one Vertibird on patrol tonight, but the airbase on Spectacle Island could easily dispatch the other four in the South Boston Patrol Wing and have them here in minutes.

Just another night at the Castle, it seemed.

Abruptly, she heard the doors to the briefing room open, and after a short walk through the passageway, the one person she'd actually been looking for emerged from inside the post.

"Garvey's got the right idea, occupying the place. But we need to get ahead of this. Thirty-five casualties looks terrible out of a force we had. Greygarden stood down?"

"Yes General. No Remnant group tried to push north. They're all still moving west."

"Keep Rangers on them. I want to know if Brandis decides to do anything weird. Word from Mac?"

"None. The boat should be there soon."

"He'll report once he lands in Far Harbor. It's Strong I'm worried about. An island like that, he might get over excited."

"Yessir."

As General Grayson, lovingly known by a thousand nicknames but just 'Blue' to Piper Wright emerged from the tunnel, he ran a hand over his slicked back hair, adjusting the white officer's cap on his head. Something seemed different about him. Ever since the destruction of the Prydwyn, he'd been out of sorts. Depression, PTSD, general fatigue. Piper could have blamed any of those...but her best guess what what he'd found down in the Institute. Whatever horrid truth he'd seen during his short time there, something had scarred him, deeper than anything seen in the Wastes, or on some Pre-War battlefield. Nothing anyone had said, not Piper, not Cait, not MacCready or Preston or Hancock, could bring him to admit what it was he'd experienced down there. No one really saw a need to until a few weeks back.

But now, it was like he was born again. The Blue she saw before her stood straight, with no bags under his eyes, a carefully attended to chinstrap and a clean uniform. He was leading Colonel Shaw and Captain Sanders out, talking with them about various things to do with Minuteman business, of course. Piper snapped her notepad shut, smiling as she rose to move to him. Whatever effect he had on her, it was mighty powerful.

So imagine her surprise when Curie abruptly seemed to fly across the compound, stand before the General for a moment and then lean up, planting a very direct and very meaningful kiss on Grayson's mouth.

The compound went silent, Minutemen staring as their chief medical officer abruptly seemed to throw herself at their commander. And, to Piper's sudden dread, Blue wasn't pulling away. He looked like he'd been about to ask Curie a question, when she'd suddenly put the moves on him! How dare she do that! That was -her- Blue, Piper's man!

Oh God, what was this?

Grayson gently put his hands on Curie's shoulders and, after a moment, slowly pulled her away, frowning as he looked down at her. For her part, Curie's face was burning bright red, but she wore a satisfied smile. She looked back to Piper, a grateful expression on her face.

And suddenly Piper understood. The man Curie had needed help with to express her feelings to...was none other than the man who had made her human!

She was so stupid.

Piper glanced uneasily over at Cait. To her surprise, the redhead brawler had racked her weights, standing and staring at the sight, sunglasses off and a furious, burning visage twisting her features.

Piper felt a strange weight fall into her gut. Things were about to become a lot more complicated.

* * *

(Parting Shot: okay, time to finally end this chapter!

A note to make sense of the future; Cold Comfort Commonwealth is an ongoing project that will be made up of multiple simultaneous storylines. To make sense of these, I'll be breaking the fic into multiple sub-plots, with a chapter devoted to a single plot per chapter.

Also, because I value everyone's input, I have to ask if you guys prefer these long, huge chapters or smaller ones that might be easier to write/read.

And again, because I value your input, don't forget I am open to snippet requests and story questions. I'll answer these as best I can with the flow of the story, or if I get a suggestion significant enough, I'll publish a bonus chapter covering the topic.

To my reviewers:

 **Paladin Bailey:** it never occurred to me that the Gunners did what they did until later, since I didn't meet them in my own game until I ran into MacCready. After that, and with the Minutemen at my back, I always just accepted I'd gotten on their bad side. But your point is actually quite relevant, and I'll be covering the Gunners, the Brotherhoods' response, relations with the Remants and the fate of the Institute survivors later on.

 **ScrimshawPen:** I'm glad I got you hooked into this community. You'd actually be surprised how many people actually do some great work with a mostly complete setting. Also, a big part of Fallout in my opinion is finding a way to make yourself hard to the horrors of the wastes and Pre-War secrets, but still winding up being horrified or disgusted by the things you find anyway. I apologize for the meandering POV. I tend to do war and political RP a lot, and it tends to drag on a little. As for Nuka-World content, you'll find that Nuka-World will become quite relevant to this plotline.

 **L0NER18:** thanks for the input, I hope I keep you onboard!

And to everyone else, thanks for giving my story a hit! I'll see you all in the future, so stay beautiful, Wasters!)


	3. Great Hunt I

(Author's Note: 60Minuteman here, with an exciting update! Due to a new schedule change at my work and a rather wierd set of priorities, I almost finished the -next- chapter before this one, which means the next chapter won't be too far in following! Also, great love to all my followers and reviewers, I'll get to you all in the Parting Shot!

Before I do, I have a question for you all; where in the Fallout world are you curious about exploring or hearing additionally from? Myself, I was always interested in other countries like Britain, Germany or the Soviet Union. What were they like before the war, and what are they like now 200 years later? Fun fact; for some reason I start thinking of Red Alert for the Soviets. If there was anywhere you guys were curious about exploring, mention it in your review and we might be able to theorize. As always, I am open to suggestions!)

* * *

" _Recon Report 17, Unit Designation Omega 7-6 actual. Mission: Long-range Reconnaissance, Mount Desert Island Naval Facility._

 _Report begins; Mount Desert Island, referred to by tribal inhabitants as simply 'the Island' is largely deserted, owing to a radioactive Fog emanating across the Isle, suspected origin being a containment failure of one or more of the nuclear warheads in the Naval Base. Though the local humans appear to still be human with little to no mutation, the local wildlife has been heavily mutated. The Island's predator/prey ratio has become skewed to at least seven to one. As a result, the wildlife have become especially hostile, and are as likely to eat each other as other island prey or the local humans. For this reason, reclamation of local settlements has been reduced to a handful of sites across the Island (one shoreline settlement, one shoreline farm, one inland settlement, one militia base and one underground android settlement). Island possesses a population of cannibalistic humans warped by the radioactive Fog and of the mutant humanoid designated as 'Super Mutant.' Any further visitation to the Island is recommended to be done by personnel from Project: MYRMIDON or Vertibird assault teams, and should be armed in an overwhelming manner._

 _Mount Desert Island Naval Facility, herein referred to as Site Bravo, is irrevocably compromised. Evidence from the surrounding tribal accounts and items at the Site provides proof of extended habitation by an especially militant sect of the religious cult following referred to as the Children of Atom. Evidence reveals the nuclear submarine recorded to be contained within as having some form of catastrophic atomic occurrence. Whether this is a result of the onboard reactor or a nuclear missile detonation is unclear at this time, as the radiation on site is too potent for current protective equipment. Strongly recommend HAZMAT protocols for further reconnaissance teams._

 _From data gathered around the settlements on the Island known as Far Harbor, Echo Lake, Acadia and Dalton Farm, what can be ascertained is that this population is both isolationist and deeply superstitious. While the android colony of Acadia is an exception to this, there is still a rather pronounced atmosphere of what can be described as gloom and depression amongst them. According to reports, an incident roughly four months ago in February 2288 resulted in a massive upheaval which led to the destruction of Site Bravo, the death of Acadia's leader and the reclaiming of several of the sites around the Island to be reused as settlements. These reports have been included as separate files on a case by case basis._

 _The recovery of several sets of Subject C-97 (Prototype Marine Assault Armor) has been successful, both from corpses of deceased Children of Atom and isolated shipments around the Island suspected to be inbound to Site Bravo before the Great War. While more sets are suspected to be found inside the base, further recovery is currently not possible._

 _The deceased Children of Atom appear to have been dispatched by a combination of both hostile weapons fire and attacks from local wildlife. Oddly, the former is more prominent, resulting in several compromised suits, and consists of a combination of hard rounds chambered in .45 caliber, .45-70 caliber, .44 magnum and what appears to be some type of laser weapon. Upon investigation, local tribals simply refer to an individual known only as 'the General' or 'the Mainlander' with some hints pointing towards an android of some type and as well as a local known as Old Longfellow. While Old Longfellow can be found at his residence, the other two individuals are most certainly foreigners, confirmed to be from the mainland in an area referred to as 'the Commonwealth'. Suspect this to be the area formerly known as the city of Boston._

 _Recommend further recon to secure additional suits of C-97, Naval blueprints or weapons manifests and the possibility of nuclear munitions, though the latter is doubtful. But would also personally recommend someone investigate this 'General of the Minutemen.' If the local stories are true, this individual is someone we might want to keep an eye on._

 _Report ends."_

* * *

 **Pip-Boy Date 6.6.2288**

 **The** **CMS Liberator**

 **Off the Coast of Maine**

 **En-route to Far Harbor**

Robert MacCready, traveling mercenary, retired mayor and former Gunner, wasn't all that accustomed to boat travel. In his time, he'd flown on Vertibirds, stalked abandoned subway tunnels, ridden on a makeshift train and even hitched a ride on a giant Mole Rat (that last one was only known by him and the creepy rider who'd wordlessly offered him a lift in the Big Apple). But boats were new. It didn't help that out here, on an ancient fishing trawler, the seas were choppy and insisted on trying to take the craft down to the bottom. He was determined not to lose his lunch, but after a day he wasn't sure he'd hold out. He envied Commander Bailey, the Far Harbor bastard standing up front of the boat, near the wheelhouse as if this sort of existence was natural to him. The fat bearded idiot was laughing with the Minuteman captain (a fisherman himself) as if nothing in the world was wrong, even as another wave broke over the rail, crashing against the wheelhouse.

Still, as much as MacCready and the other Minutemen aboard were suffering, it wasn't as bad as what was happening to Strong.

The Super Mutant had bad experiences with water. Not only were there things like Mirelurks, Snappers and Deathmaws out there (mutated crabs, dolphins and sharks according to Grayson) Strong swore that even worse monsters of the deep lurked off the Commonwealth's shores. For his part, MacCready saw no reason to doubt him. But sea monsters aside, Strong had immediately stripped of everything heavy, from his plate armor to even his super-sledge and LMG, dumping it all in the hold next to his makeshift bunk. Ever since, Strong had refused to come on deck, lest he be dumped over the rail. The big guy had a point.

The Liberator had been repaired and refurbished from a large fishing boat, the hold turned into a troop and weapons bay accessible from a newly installed hatch. While the craft was crewed by ten, the hold was packed with twenty now seasick Minutemen, trying to make it through their tortuous journey. Instead of going around the east side of the Island directly to Far Harbor, Bailey had insisted on keeping to the west, going the long way around.

"The beast is watching our grounds," he had said when he'd given directions to Captain Sears. "Our safe bet is to come from the other side. Longer, yes. But less likely for Ole Peg to sink us."

Ole Peg. That was what the Minutemen were here to hunt. A beast from legend, apparently made real. Of course, MacCready had dismissed these stories offhandedly, until someone had told him the General had discovered a Chinese submarine in the harbor. With a ghoul for a captain.

Okay. Weird, but explainable. Suddenly the stories made sense. Ever since then, sightings of Ole Peg had disappeared. Nobody wanted to even say a ghoul blue whale existed when they could easily be proven wrong with a single recent event.

And then fishing boats off the Island starting disappearing.

Many wondered if the creature known as the Red Death still lived. The Mariner, dead and buried, had insisted she and the General had killed the creature. But when a boat survived and insisted it was no red glow, people suddenly were no longer sure. Especially when the glow turned out to be yellow. Reports varied, from tentacles to a living island to a mouth full of teeth. All anyone knew was that sixteen boats had been sunk, and this was after a significant culling of a large portion of the Island's predators at the hands of the General and Far Harbor's militia.

Not to mention the destruction of the local Children of Atom. MacCready had nothing against religious types, but these guys seemed to be the crusading type. More trouble for decent folk. Served them right, from what he had heard.

In the evening distance, the Island swallowed up the horizon. From what he had heard, MacCready had understood it to be a National Park before the War. That meant it had been loaded with all kinds of strange animals to mutant into the horror show the place was now. Aside from Far Harbor, the Commonwealth aligned Dalton Farm, the Militia base at an old Visitor's Center, a town built into a lumber mill and the city of Acadia, the place was at this point completely given over to the wilderness. Scary monster predators that seemed to make up almost all of the wildlife? Check. Cannibal trappers driven mad by the Fog? Check. Super Mutant colony at an old bottling plant? Check. Now heavily irradiated military base formerly inhabited by a bunch of murdering zealot nuts? Check. And, of course, Synths. Check.

What was the difference between the Island and the Commonwealth, again?

MacCready knew he couldn't stay holed up below the entire trip. So instead, he had staggered up to the deck, spending his time mostly at the railing. At least here, the perpetually choppy seas were open, and he could stare at the horizon to make himself feel better. But here, with the Island soaring up towards him, he almost felt like going back down. Something about the place just unsettled him, worse than that synth guy Marston. The dude just stood in the wheelhouse, like a looming presence. Weird.

"We'll be there in a few hours," said a voice nearby, and MacCready turned to find himself being addressed by Lieutenant MariaTaylor, commander of this mission. She was a handsome woman, he would admit, but far too intrusive for his liking. She was always bothering him for his opinion, and even in the past day she'd come to him trying to chat him up. MacCready usually considered himself a fairly social person, but most people understood he also liked his space. If this Minuteman chick didn't get out of his face soon, he'd have to start getting rude.

To stay polite, he simply nodded, turning back to the ocean. It was supposed to be blue, right? So why did the water appear to be green and brackish? The boat suddenly rocked again, and he lurched forward, about to lose his lunch for sure, almost hanging over the gunwhale. The dark water chopped just below his jaw.

It could have just been the sea sickness or the general creepiness of the fog, but in that moment, MacCready could have sworn that, just below the film over the dark gloom of the deep water, he saw a pair of eyes, staring back at him…

"Wreck sighted!" called the lookout, and MacCready looked up instinctively, spotting the aforementioned wreckage just ahead, cast in focus by the bow-mounted spotlight. The rest of the boat was leaping to life as the engines cut to half, taking them down to a slower chop. MacCready glanced back down, but the water's murk hid whatever was down there, if anything. He straightened, convinced it was just his imagination, but still gripped with a chill running up his spine that said they weren't as alone out here as they thought.

The Liberator pulled to a halt, her engine thrumming as she held position, the passengers and crew lining the rail to look upon this grim portend. The spotlight danced over the wreck, but it needn't have bothered. This close up, MacCready could see that the destroyed boat had twin trails of fire behind it, streaking off into the darkness towards the Island. It was a fishing trawler, smaller than the Liberator but still larger than many of the tiny craft seen in Boston. Her red hull was rusted through of course, and her cabin painted white like many other boats her size. Judging from the crane and nets at her stern, she'd retained her original purpose, and was probably from Far Harbor or one of the nearby settlements.

But the most distinguishing feature was the fact that she was cleanly torn in two, dashed across a small rocky sandbar with debris being the only thing connecting the two halves. For a long moment, the passengers on board the Minuteman boat could only look upon the result of violence in silent awe, which wasn't helped when the spotlight panned over first the bow half, then the stern. Splashed against the wheelhouse was quite obviously a copious amount of blood, yet to be washed away by the sea.

The one to break the silence was, oddly, Strong.

"Big fish do that?"

No one answered. No one wanted the answer to honestly be yes, for multiple reasons. If Ole Peg was capable of that kind of damage, the Liberator might just be getting in over her head. Could they even kill a creature in the water capable of that kind of punishment?

"We should move on," Bailey finally said, looking nervously out over the water. "If she's close by, we're in real danger. I could have sworn she was concentrating on the eastern side of the Island…"

"No," MacCready cut in suddenly, feeling some of that fake courage he'd learned to master over his life bubbling back to the surface. "We don't know that this was Peg. For all we can tell, the navigator might have just gotten blinded by a bright light or something." He glanced at the wall, swallowing nervously as he added "And then uh...were killed by Snappers. Y'know."

He swiftly cleared his throat, loosening his rifle off his shoulder and checking the safety before he moved towards their single rowboat, stashed near the back. "Just five minutes! If we don't get anything, we know she's not around here! But we could learn something about the monster we're here for!"

"Give me two!" Lieutenant Taylor called out, and as she had called two of the Minutemen immediately stepped up next to her. The rest she ordered to arm up and watch the water. Heavy artillery was to be saved for a positive sighting.

Strong immediately refused to go.

And so it was that MacCready was dipped into the water with Taylor, her two chumps and two of the crew from the Liberator, covering the short distance to the wreck in startling speed. The wind had picked up, and the sea had picked up some chop as the moved out into the dark water. Once again, MacCready had that strange sensation that said they were being watched by someone...or something. That chill down his back had never been wrong, and had saved his life on several occasions. But scanning his darkened surroundings turned up nothing to his eyes. The sea was a completely foreign environment to him, and that just unsettled him even more. But there was nothing to be done. He had to push on at this point.

The wrecked boat was named the Glamor, according to the name stencilled on her prow. MacCready's boots clanked onto her deck as he slipped over the rail, right past the relatively new white paint. Given the deck was tilted at a sharp angle, he had to struggle not to slip. The crewmen stuck with the boat, while the Minutemen clambered towards the stern.

Taylor, annoyingly, stuck with him.

"So, was it the whale?" she asked, stepping over to the wheelhouse and lowering herself to the opposite gunwhale, her eyes lingering on the blood splashed over the walls. MacCready just grunted, moving down towards the deck hatch. If it hadn't been Ole Peg, something else big had taken fit to this boat. It wasn't an explosive, the tear was almost too clean. A large shark? Maybe, but then the same issue as the explosion was present.

He slipped through the hatch, ducking down the awkwardly placed stairs. Just like buildings, boats were hard to navigate at odd angles. The cargo hold had what looked to be a small galley, and the stench of fish was still overpowering, even with the sealed fish tank ripped open, dead fish scattered everywhere. MacCready glanced out the massive tear in the boat, spotting the stern end as the two Minutemen were starting to go over their half of the boat. His eyes looked over the rent metal. He'd seen similar in crashed Vertibirds and ancient trains. No doubt about it, this craft had been ripped apart by something huge pulling in opposite directions. Another pool of blood near his feet caught his eye, and he leaned down, quietly contemplating.

"Hey Taylor," he finally called out. "How many people do you think were crewing a boat like this?"

From above, silence. At first, he wondered if she'd wandered off, but then her voice replied "Maybe six. Why?"

"If we can identify a blood pool for each dead man, we can figure out how many died on board. Something tells me a damn whale can't kill people on top of a boat."

He stood, turning towards the bow. Lockers lined the far side, though flames trickled along the floor to the right...er, starboard side. A torn fuel line must be the reason for the fire on the sea. So the boat was dragged here after being broken up. He glanced out over his shoulder again, coughing lightly at the smoke. The fire trail petered out some ways out to sea, where it ended without explanation.

"How the hell does a whale of all things do that?" he muttered, rubbing his chin. Something didn't feel right. This seemed like the work of a creature that could grab on and pull things apart. Like a Mirelurk Queen, but much more titanic. At least it meant this couldn't have been a freaking whale. But that raised the question of just what **had** caused this wreck.

He was about to leave when something caught his eye. There, near the flames here in the bow. He stepped closer, drawing his sidearm. He put the muzzle into the fire, tugging at the mystery item before slowly pulling the item out. What he found, however, just made him even more confused.

Vault-Tec jumpsuits were made of a specially treated material. It breathed easily, was resilient to a lot of things and could be treated with different chemicals for various effects such as ballistic hardening or radiation resistance. On top of that, Vault-Tec suits were notoriously difficult to damage. Skeletons could be found with them more or less intact in the ruins of vaults. But as MacCready tugged the piece of blue material forward, he turned it in his hands, his gloves and the sea spray mitigating the heat. It must have been a piece off the back. Three numbers stared up at him, in faded yellow. 120.

"How many freaking vaults are there?"

* * *

 **The Last Plank, Far Harbor, the Island**

Old Gregory Longfellow wasn't a man given over to a complicated life. He had his cabin, his guns and his drinks. And that's all he needed. You don't get to be this age in this world leading this life if you didn't find a way to be satisfied. As such, his tastes were simple. A few beers a night, his rifle by his side and the knowledge the Children of atom were well and truly gone. Tonight, as every night, he sat back and thought on his life. Things had changed since Grayson had showed up. Single handedly breaking up the standoff and retaking the parts of the Island what could be taken back. Echo Lake was now a prospering homestead, and the Militia base at the Visitor's Center protected the route between them and Far Harbor. With the settlement at Dalton Farm completing the set, many were saying it was only a matter of time before they finally took the land back.

But Old Longfellow had a longer memory than most. People would forget this. Even the tale of the Captain's Dance and the Nucleus would fade from memory one day, and then folks would go on back to being their bitter, small-hearted selves.

He held up his beer.

"To things that never change. War and human nature."

He was in the middle of his self-stylized toast when the door to the pub opened, and Captain Avery herself stepped in. He wasn't alone in here, but there were a few customers. Maybe for once the woman had come to help herself to a drink. But while she waved at Mitch and Ken (who spared a moment from their petty arguing to send her a wave and a smile back) he was clearly her target. He groaned. Not again. He'd hoped to trudge back home and sleep for a few days.

"Longfellow. Bailey's pulling into the harbor. He's on a Minuteman boat."

Longfellow chuckled, studying his near empty bottle and contemplating that third thing that never changed; fickle timing.

"So Bailey did it, eh? After the way you sent him off, I was afraid the General might not want to come back."

Avery glared at Longfellow. It was no secret she'd been sour after the Nucleus had gone up. The place was still leaking radiation out of the deep marshes, and it had gotten so bad no one dared to try and fish around there. Anglers had made the spot their own anyway, in far too dangerous numbers. Still, some scavengers had started pulling pieces out of the muck anyway, proof that the Children of Atom really had been squirreled away in the deepest hidden pockets of the Island. People were loathe to wander now. If an entire military base had gone unnoticed all this time, what else was secreted away out here?

"Those people didn't have to die, Longfellow."

"Fuck that. It was either them or us, and you know it, Captain. I've had firsthand knowledge of that." He gulped down the last of his drink before slamming the bottle down and standing, picking up Henrietta and slinging her over his shoulder. With the new parts being brought in by trade with the mainland, he'd finally gotten her that upgrade he'd been wishing for, and she was now a killing machine in his capable hands. Out of habit, he'd checked the chamber first. Always have a round racked, just in case. It had saved his life more than once.

Avery huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. "A few people's actions doesn't condemn an entire community, Longfellow. That's what they were, people. Look," she said, quickly cutting off whatever he was about to say next with a raised hand. "I didn't come here to argue morals. I just wanted to let you know Bailey was back. Figured you'd want to know. They'll want you to work with them again."

"Well, why not? Look what happened last time; we actually got something done."

With a dry, slightly inebriated chuckle, Longfellow pushed past Avery's shocked expression, and the door next.

The dock outside was full of its customary blanket of Fog. No matter what time of day, these docks seemed to be chock full of Fog or mist or some kind of obscuring film. Hell, most of the windows had a layer of grime over the glass. Far Harbor hadn't changed much in the past 200 years, and it definitely hadn't changed much in the past four months. Well, aside from fewer people. With reclamation fever in the air, Echo Lake and the Visitor's Center had been swiftly repopulated, with Militia to protect them both. Though there were plenty of people who traveled to the Dalton Farm, the Mainlander's place. That one looked like an outpost more than a farm, and one resident had even gotten the cheeky idea to hang the Minuteman flag over it. It had yet to come down.

The residents left in the town had emptied out of the buildings to the docks, looking out over the water as the large mass of the Mainlander craft came in. The boat Bailey had entreated take him over to the Commonwealth had been a traveler, but the one coming in was of a size only seen in wrecks. It wasn't a freighter, but still seemed to take up most of the lower dock with its bulk. On her hull, painted in fresh white were the block letters spelling out **LIBERATOR**. On her deck, figures milled in the mist, shouted orders drowned out by the gunboat's engines and the waves lapping against the pier, the milling of the crowd only adding to the buzz. Lines snaked down from the gunwhales, and after them came men, sturdy and whiplike, not Harbormen but seemingly experienced sailors regardless. Overhead, on her highest mast, the blue flag of the Commonwealth Minutemen flapped and fluttered cheerily, as if it hadn't realized just where it had arrived. As the men wound the lines around the pier, the engine finally cut, allowing the ship to settle against the dock, the not quite storm tugging at her hull and attempting to drag her away.

He had to push at first, but as the murmuring people realized who he was, the crowd parted before him. He started getting pelted with questions at the same time too, and the result was a confusing mesh of statements and queries, so he ignored the lot as he went.

"Longfellow, that's the Mainlander boat, yeah?"

"Aw, that don't look like much."

"Are they here to kill Ole Peg?"

"Hope they got a lot of guns."

"I thought Mainlanders were taller."

"Longfellow, you're going to help them, right?"

"Bloody Mainlanders, poking their noses in where they don't belong."

Longfellow pushed on, continuing to ignore the crowd around him. The sheep were content to call themselves so grand when things were going well, but when forced to call for help they'd simply bitch about this and that and expect someone else to solve things for them. What the hell had happened to the Harbormen and women who could actually get off their asses and get things done? They'd apparently died out with his generation, because that was the last time he remembered Islanders actually rising together against a common threat, at that point being the hunt for Shipbreaker. Still hadn't found that bitch, as a matter of fact.

Longfellow came to the stairs at last, descending to the pier as the Liberator deployed her gangplank. Down the stairs came a line of figures in blue uniforms and armor, looking relieved to be on solid ground. Wide-brimmed hats and slung rifles were everywhere, and Longfellow got that niggling feeling in the back of his skull, one he'd associated with the Children of Atom. Something alien, an invader that didn't belong here. Two lines of Minutemen began to line up into two loose lines, hacking and coughing as they tried to dispel their seasickness. One threw up into the sea, and caused two of his comrades to do the same.

"Alright, line up!" came the shout from the ramp, and Longfellow witnessed three more figures striding down, seemingly fine emerging from the storm-tossed ship. The first wore Minuteman fatigues, a gold bar patch sewn into both her collar and the wide-brimmed hat she wore, one side folded up. She was good-looking in her own way, a sprinkling of freckles over the bridge of her nose and her auburn hair pulled back into a messy ponytail. She looked too nice to be yelling the expletives she was hurling, and she began cursing out one of her soldiers, who looked nonplussed at the dressing down he was receiving.

"You Longfellow?" asked another voice, this one male. Longfellow turned to a young man (what was up with all these kids?), wearing green clothes and a leather coat, large-caliber rounds tucked into his cap, a bandolier across his chest and at his belt. A bolt-action rifle was slung over one shoulder, its wood lovingly cared for and another strip of rounds in a leather pad around the stock, the scope covered with a black burlap sack.

The Old Man nodded. "I am," he replied, looking him up and down skeptically. "Are you with the Minutemen?" It was a little difficult to believe.

The rifleman smiled, showing off teeth that had clearly seen better days (a common sight, unfortunately). "I just pick up the caps. MacCready, Freelancer. But yeah, we're here to hunt the whale that's been giving you trouble."

Longfellow glanced around at the Minutemen. As well as automatic rifles, they also had hunting shotguns, grenades and from what he could see at least one LMG and a definite grenade launcher. And with the size of that boat, who knew what they had aboard?

"Seems to me you've got everything you need," he quipped, turning back to MacCready. "Lotta guns here. Lotta people coming with 'em. What did you need to come to a dank little harbor for?"

"Longfellow!" came Avery's yell from the stairs.

Bailey stepped down behind MacCready, moving over to Longfellow and clapping a hand on the hunter's shoulder, grinning through his beard as he did so.

"Told you they'd come! And you doubted me so heartily."

"Never said they wouldn't," Longfellow corrected crossly. "Said you'd die on the way there."

Bailey, ever the optimist, simply smiled wider, before he turned to Captain Avery as she finally broke from the crowd and came to stand next to Longfellow. The smile slipped off his face as he cleared his throat.

"We uh...we found the Glamor. No survivors."

Avery cursed, glaring out to sea. Another crew taken from them. This time, it was Foster, his son and four good fishermen. The Glamor had always beaten the odds, coming through storms, Mirelurk attacks, Canadian pirates and more. But this time, Ole Peg had her number, it seemed. She turned back to Bailey, sighing.

"What do they need?"

"Harpoon guns," MacCready replied, scratching his chin. "Many as you can get. About five or six should do. Plus as many harpoons as you guys have got. We've got guns and bombs for when we get the bit-...the whale up on the surface. But that's all pointless if we can't force her to surface."

"And what then?" Avery queried. "Peg's a big girl. Are you sure you can put her down?"

Another noise from the ramp, rattling and clanking of a tremendous volume, drawing all eyes from the pier and causing quite a stir from the crowd up the stairs. At the top of the gangplank, there stood the hulking green form of a fully armored Super Mutant, olive green mottled skin and heavy plates indicating his species, but over one shoulder the monster had a missile launcher slung, and was carrying a massive Shrike machine gun, fitted with a bayonet and an enormous drum labeled ".308 HE". A blade-crested helmet completed the set. He squinted down at the humans assembled on the pier before turning to look at the town, and beyond, the Island. He didn't seem impressed.

"We find big fish now?"

Longfellow chuckled, tugging out a thin cigar and tucking it between his teeth, a flip lighter following.

"Captain...I don't think we got a damn thing to worry about."

* * *

(Parting Shot: I realize this chapter isn't quite as long as the other two, but sometimes the content just doesn't come and it starts to feel forced at times. I can, however, promise my chapters will average about five to six thousand words on average, so don't worry about losing anything to my brain!

Now, to my lovely reviewer spotlight!

 **ScrimshawPen:** thanks for the compliment! I always feel that people who write Fallout stories lately don't fully explore a lot of the depth required to capture the game properly. This is a big game, after all. It needs big considerations. Hope you stick around!

 **torrerofranches:** Quincy always felt like a lost opportunity. I must have cleared it out a dozen times, and I always feel disappointed I never got anything out of it. Well, that changes here, I guarantee you.

 **Paladin Bailey:** good to hear you like the extended content. As for Elder Maxson, my decision regarding various members of the Brotherhood, as well as the end result itself, was a long and painful decision process of trial, error and probability. I try to keep things as close to reality probability as I can, though if we adhered 100% to reality, Fallout wouldn't be possible. As for the Minuteman-Brotherhood War, conflicts of this nature rarely spin down nicely, as both sides usually have unfinished business to deal with. But who knows, perhaps there will be higher priorities for both sides in the near future.

 **Guest:** while I love your feedback, please keep criticisms about other reviewers out of my review section. I'd rather this place not become a debate table.

 **BJSC:** I love hearing that my stuff is original! It makes me feel warm and gooey inside, like maybe this exercise I have in how to extend an epilogue might actually have a future. If you keep giving me feedback like that, I'll keep giving you chapters like these!

A quick note to you guys: thanks to a quirk in my schedule and interest, I have quite a lot of progress done on the next chapter, so stick around for the next chapter, which will delve into the main story plot of Cold Comfort Commonwealth! It won't be long coming!)


	4. Aftermath III

(Author's Note: My God...folks, this was supposed to be two separate chapters. But the further I got into it, the more interwoven the content became, and the harder it was to lop pieces from it. So eventually, the monstrosity you see before you is the end result. This is what happens when you spend too long brainstorming and not enough time outlining what's going to go into each individual chapter, folks.

Well, nothing else for it but to wish you all good reading, and hear what you think! Enjoy!)

* * *

 **An excerpt from** ' **Boston Reborn: the Commonwealth'**

 _Regretfully, the Minutemen victory over the Institute during Operation Deliverance did not result in the peace so many had yearned for. On March 21st 2288, the General of the Minutemen delivered the definitive news, though many had seen the blast that destroyed the CIT ruins. The Institute was gone. With it, the fear of being abducted in the night, of constantly worrying that your settlement was going to be wiped out by a legion of manlike machines, ebbed. The fear was not gone, of course. There were still plenty of Institute infiltrators out and among the populace, after all. The Brotherhood of Steel and the Minutemen began a hunt for spies, trying to root out the Institute agents left behind. The human collaborators were found quickly. The synths, however, dug deep. For weeks, nothing. But when, on April 13th, it was revealed that none other than Mayor McDonough of Diamond City was himself a synth, shock and outrage spread like wildfire. The spy barricaded his office, holding his secretary hostage until General Grayson and two Minutemen stormed the place. In seconds, McDonough's double lay dead on the ground, having been personally executed by the General. Control was reestablished quickly by the city council, but the question was suddenly out there; who would unmask themselves next, now they had nowhere to go?_

* * *

 **Pip-Boy Date 6.7.2288**

 **New Awlins, the Gulf Zone**

Old Louisiana had already been a vicious beast. Overgrown with marsh and swamp, a single hurricane away from flooding every city and town into ruination. Modern monsters had drifted through the wilds, and the locals were paranoid and spiritual, many legends haunting streets and graveyards on misty nights. It had only gotten worse after the bombs had struck. New Orleans itself had been wiped off the map, bombed and sunk and bombed and sunk until all that remained were the upper floors of the structures that still stood, like a grim tribute to times long forgotten. The entire city was one enormous graveyard now, a memorial of death that snared anyone who dared try to sail straight through.

The swamp barge chugging its way past the once great (now sunken) city was best compared to the paddlewheel boats of eons past, in a time that even two-hundred years ago would have been considered ancient. It was built of collected scrap, built up onto an old tug boat and two more she tailed. She had no name, such was her ugly charm, but she played an important role to the people who used her. Her pilot was a short, squat Swamper who grunted and gestured and growled. He was assisted by a mountain of a man, covered in scars and always bare from the waist up, though his face was covered by a leather mask and goggles, his long hair pulled back under a wide-brimmed swamp hat. The Mountain Swamper's body was coated in the coal dust he was constantly shoveling alongside the wood he threw into the engine to burn, and he never seemed to stop moving, or to ever speak. The two were odd, creepy, and everyone was content to leave them be.

The passengers were a mixed lot, of course. Local Swampers looking to scavenge the sunken ruins of New Awlins and the surrounding towns undersea, trappers trying to hunt massive gators and mirelurks, traders attempting to keep their wares and pack brahmin out of the reach of the freshwater sharks that hunted just below the surface. Mercenaries also lined the deck, some of them former Legionnaires attempting to escape the seven year long Legion Civil War raging across Arizona and parts of Texas. Some of them were locals, putting their hard-earned skills to feeding themselves. Some were from Texas as well, identified by clothing better suited to deserts than swamps. The towed barges were jam packed with travelers, of all ages. Livestock, too. Just a complete package of humanity moving on from one ruined area to another, a living mural of the southern wastes.

She stood against the railing, hat tilted at an angle, bent cigarette unlit between her lips. Caps were running low, so was ammo, food, meds and clean water. Everything, really. Meant she had to make the smokes last. The swamp breeze generated by both the Gulf and the barge moving tugged at her coat emblazoned with the Old World flag, and the smell of continual rot reach her nose. She ignored it. She'd smelled worse. Denver, Zion Canyon, New Reno, Camp Searchlight, Nipton, the Boneyard. They'd all smelled of fire and death and things far more sinister than some swamp, as full of monsters as it was. Swamps didn't give her nightmares. Deserts would, if she wasn't in them so much.

"Hey babe," said a voice nearby, and she turned her head to find the three standing there. They'd been watching her since she boarded the barge in Port Arthur. She knew their look. Predators. They weren't as bad as Legion assassins in the middle of the night on an empty plain, but they still looked at her like a hunk of prime rib.

Their 'leader' (she supposed) looked like a typical Raider, but his face was grimy, sooty. He stank of the city. A ganger, then, from somewhere like New Austin or Corpus Christi. Some street tough who though having a gun and a few scars made you the ultimate badass. He stepped forward, until he was right next to her. With that cocky grin and all the forwardness in the world, he reached up, snagging her cigarette and placing it between his lips, lighting it off a matchbook.

"Christ, if you ain't gonna use it, let someone else." He took a puff before leering over at her. "Only makes sense, right babe?" She wanted to murder him everytime he called her 'babe'. But she held back. She had a long way to ride for the package in her messenger bag. If the barge kicked her off, she'd be mucking it through that nightmare swamp. So she ignored him, staring at the water, auburn hair that had come loose from under her hat blowing into her eyes.

The punk didn't take the hint, and eyed her annoyingly, gesturing his two buddies closer. They wore leather jackets and not yet worn travel boots. They hadn't gone far. Might even have ridden this barge a few times to fleece who they could. They also carried expectation and lust in their eyes. No one on the barge looked in their direction. No one would come to her aid.

The Prick in charge leaned closer, grinning as he blew out a cloud of smoke (her smoke) and said "A bit shy, aren't you doll? Make up for it with this here cannon, then?" He tapped her Survivalist's Rifle, next to her on the rail. Out of wisdom, she'd wrapped the sling around a fixture, so it couldn't fall off into the water, but she could still grab it if need be. Bullets that large were hard to find away from military posts, and the killing she'd had to do across Texas had put a dent in her stock. She'd been relying more and more on her sidearm and hatchet, both of which were looking very attractive to her hands…

Then the jackass had to lean in and whisper "I bet you're wild between the sheets. Chicks like you who think they're hard, they break even harder after the first few rounds. I love making bitches like you beg for it."

She only spared him the lightest of glances, but it was enough for her to finally see the poorly covered bull tattoo on his cheek. Ah. Made sense why his outfit seemed out of place now.

The ex-Legionnaire reached out, tracing her cheek, and she braced up, trying not to tense too hard under his grimy fingers. She couldn't help but grit her teeth, however, as the scum ran his hand down her neck, over her back, under her jacket and winding around her waist. His hand angled downward, clearly about to exert his power over her by copping a feel, when he suddenly froze as a large, solid mass pressed up against his crotch. There was a click and a beep, and suddenly his eyes shot down. An absolutely massive handgun was pressed against him, not even out of its holster but shifted by her hand as she'd reached up and turned it towards him, finger on the trigger. He glanced back at his two cohorts, who seemed to pick up on their leader's panic, but before the two could react, a wailing series of beeps and whines rang out, followed by the hum of a charging energy coil.

She just loved hiding ED-E away to spring out when people tried to get the drop on her.

"I'd normally have just blown you away by now, Shit Brain," she said quietly, her voice low and husky, her eyes still fixed on the water. "The second you stole my smoke. But I need a ride north, and that cannon there," she wiggled the hand cannon she held purposefully. "Will blow your balls all over the deck of this nice, pleasant shitty boat." She considered for a moment with a small smile on her face, as if something below amused her. "But, for you bastards, it's worth it."

The first shot boomed, muffled slightly by the punk's crotch.

* * *

 **Listening Post Bravo**

The hills and crags surrounding the hidden bunker were a boon to its occupant. They helped obscure him from curious eyes, and the dilapidated nature gave the appearance that no one had inhabited it in some serious time. The destroyed Protectron clearly visible from the door helped reinforce that. It all helped add to the illusion that this place was merely another empty and picked over site in the Commonwealth, like hundreds of others. Kirk Danse wasn't afraid of the local settlers, and the Brotherhood had been forced to move on weeks ago. But he stayed here regardless.

His boots crunched through the mud, carrying him up the hill before he'd start his drop towards the bunker's entrance. He'd decided to go without his armor today. The fusion reactor in the basement did a good job recharging his fusion cores, but this was supposed to be a short trek to Breakheart Homestead to purchase some scrap and supplies. Those farmers were mostly survivors from the Slog, the Finch family and those few that had gotten off Nordhagen Beach. Together, they'd formed a new community in the old Super Mutant base. With its size, no one recognized just another traveler like him, and it had become a primary point of supply for him. Caps were tough to come by, but odd jobs and selling weapons he'd scrounged in the bunker helped him get by. It was a tough life, but he was making do so far.

On the way back, he paused for a quick water break, checking his rifle as he did so. The summer's growth of foliage on the trees brought with it welcome shade, and he took the opportunity selfishly, sitting on a rock in a dried out riverbed to drop his backpack. June was looking to be rather warm, and July and August would only carry with it higher temperatures. He ran a hand over his brow, and marveled for a moment at the sweat on his brow. The fact this was produced artificially still amazed him, and at times the fact he was a synth came biting back hard, and he slipped into a state of sadness for the rest of the day. He was getting better, however. Coming to terms with his existence meant learning how to stop questioning his own memories, trying to figure out what was his own and how much of his life was a lie. He'd realized it was impossible to tell the difference, and he'd never find out when he was inserted into the Brotherhood, not with the destruction of the Institute. If his banishment had made him an exile, the War for the Commonwealth had made him an outlaw by simple affiliation. Should one settler remember his face, he was due for a bullet anywhere he went.

He heard a rustling in the brush nearby, and in an instant he was up, rifle in hand as he scanned his surroundings, down on one knee as he checked his six. Nothing. Unless a Chameleon Deathclaw had snuck up on him, but so far the monsters had yet to learn how to completely muffle quarter ton footsteps. After another minute or so, he rose, rifle held at the low ready, but he could hear birds in the near distance, and further away the whistling of wind through the pass. Even further away was the hum of the reclaimed Saugus Ironworks in the distance, near the burnt wreck of the Slog. The air was quiet.

Ex-Paladin Danse cursed, tucking his canteen away and stooping for his pack, resuming his course again. He needed to stop getting so wound up. For all of his life (he once more ignored the additive of 'that he was sure of') he had always been certain, straightforward and locked in. He always knew what he wanted and where he was going. Never a shred of doubt. Now, he could barely go an hour without being drawn into speculation. He needed to stop questioning himself. He was what he was, and nothing would change that. He needed to survive, and that was unlikely to change anytime soon. And he needed to plan for the future, because that was always changing.

He could at least wear his Brotherhood bomber jacket. In these parts, looted Brotherhood gear was constantly trading hands. While a lot of valuable pieces had been scooped up by the Minutemen, things like uniforms, supplies and smuggled weapons with Brotherhood paint was fresh on the market, and no one gave a second glance to the tall stranger in the t-shirt and jeans wearing a dead man's jacket he'd probably bought from a scavenger. It was small, but being able to wear the thing was a comfort.

He stepped past the protectron and into the elevator, pushing the button to head down. As the booth rumbled, he took a second to breathe deeply, considering his newfound safety for the time being. Saugus Ironworks had been cleaned out, mitigating much risk to the local area, but threats still wandered the landscape. Nowhere aside from a fortified bunker like this one was safe.

Then again, considering who he shared a room with now, one could consider him to always be in danger.

The elevator doors opened to a chorus of ragged swears from a tattered throat, and Danse sighed as he remembered his roommate. Danse stepped in, moving down the tunnel towards the rear portion. He'd left the Yao Guai's habitat as they'd found it, for the turn made a good defensive work, and the inner tunnel was perfect for booby traps. He stepped expertly around the landmines, the whole time listening to oaths and curses being hurled towards every being in existence.

"Goddammit all! Danse, where are you!"

"Calm down, Arthur. You're not dying today."

When the Prydwyn had gone down, Danse had been scavenging near Saugus. The fighting had been raging for some time, and as callous as it was, poking through the wreckage of the Slog and Finch farm would be the best chance he'd have to scrounge supplies. That had all gone out the window when he'd seen the shells landing on the airship. Gunfire in the near distance told him a direct attack had been mounted on Boston Airport. The Prydwyn was disappearing in a ball of flames, cascading down to the ground.

Danse had run. He didn't care about being spotted, didn't care that there was a firefight occurring just at the entrance of the airport, or that live mortar shells were shattering buildings around him. As he burst out of a parking garage, the structure he was in instantly collapsed in a tumble of shattered concrete and a ball of immolating fire. On the other side, Brotherhood positions were under constant attack, and if it wasn't shells from above it was missiles and bullets from the front. And behind them, the airship burned, having crashed straight into the terminal and Liberty Prime. Explosions rippled over her hull, underneath her bulk, across the runway. The next part was a blur to him, but Danse had made his way over to the wreckage, grabbing handfuls of burning scrap with both hands and digging, furiously.

Arthur Maxson was the only one he'd found. The observation deck had been directly above the bridge, and that had been crushed. If Arthur Maxson, bones broken, clothes on fire and skin lacerated by glass, had barely survived, there was no way the Lancers had. And as more explosions rang out, the Exile knew he had no time.

And so, they were here today. With Maxson laying in a bedframe and three mattresses Danse had scavenged, IV bags and monitors hooked up to the maimed Elder. Nearby, a tray with Med-X and stimpacks had been set up, and several bottles of water left within arms' reach. Danse had done his best needlework trying to apply stitches while picking the glass fragments out, but the broken bones had to heal on their own. Stimpacks were good for the burns and smaller cuts, but Maxson for all his will could not move from his bed. Without material for casts, Danse had been forced to put together braces from scrap to hold Maxson's limbs, a painful adaptation that the Elder had bitched about from the high heavens. Funny how he claimed to have killed a Deathclaw with nothing but his hands, but at this point he complained about everything.

"You left me here alone again," Maxson huffed, doing his best not to shift as he glowered at Danse. Full of tubes and restrained by his own broken bones, he no longer seemed quite so imposing. The Exile remembered that the Elder was at most twenty one years old, and he looked it. A gangly kid, covered in bruises and blisters, most of his hair and beard burned away and leaving behind bare, scarred cheeks.

Danse unslung the ruck, dropping it near his workstation.

"I had to get more food. We were down to a day or two left. You were fine."

He checked Maxson's medical monitors, from the computer watching his vitals to the IV bag to the bedpan under the cot. Until the Elder could move around on his own, Danse was responsible for everything in his patient's life. He checked Maxson's painkillers and rummaged around for another dose, but only came up with empty IV bags. Sighing, he pulled out the carton of Med-X syringes, aiming for a vein and injecting steadily. He'd have to keep an eye out for Doc Weather next time he was around. The Breakheart chem dealer only had stimpacks, and Danse couldn't remember what they had left in the cabinet, so he'd crossed his fingers. Obviously, no luck.

After a quick meal (this time Danse had brought back some fresh fruit, so they'd lucked out on that one) the Exile stripped off his coat, cracked open a protein bar and a Nuka-Cola Victory, stepping over to his workbench, where a servo array for a power armor frame's arm lay. He'd been meaning to do some serious maintenance on his suit for some time, and now they'd been resupplied that was all he felt like doing the rest of the day. Now he had parts, too. He pulled out a piston, checking the hydraulic pump before he installed the new valve. That done, he removed the broken seal, laying a new one in before reinstalling the plates, his screwdriver flying. The finger servos in the wrist had been giving him trouble, but he had a new circuit board for that, and the mechanical hand finally moved fluidly. Excellent. The arm done at last, he brought the whole assembly over to his armor stand, taking note of the fusion core charging nearby.

As Danse returned to his work, Maxson fell silent. The painkillers were enough to put a normal man to sleep, but Arthur insisted on remaining awake during daylight hours as much as he could. Something about retaining his schedule as much as he could. During this time, he would stare at the ceiling, either muttering something to himself or attempting to recall an item from memory. Other times, he would watch the medical monitor, seeing his own vitals on screen. For his age, Maxson was a rapid learner, and in the last few weeks he had learned how to read his medical signs closely, which meant he needed Danse to come check on him less. Which satisfied the Elder immensely. Not a day went by he reminded Danse he was a soulless abomination.

A few days ago, it had suddenly started sounding a bit hollow. A little less earnest

"Danse," Maxson said suddenly. The Exile turned, glancing over his shoulder as he paused in his work. He didn't say anything back, but Arthur hadn't said anything to try and engage him without it being an insult or necessity. He wondered what Maxson could want, and held his tongue.

"You confuse me."

Now Danse was the one a little stumped. He bolted the X-01's arm onto the frame, locking the actuators in place. "I'm going to need a little more than that to work with."

Maxson turned to Danse, and for the first time Danse saw a flash of the vulnerable, lost and undoubtedly broken twenty-one year old he was. Without the beard, and with the vicious burns and lacerations, Arthur Danse could have been anyone, not the leader of the almighty Brotherhood of Steel. Could have just been some kid rent apart by the wasteland.

"You...are an abomination. This I know. A marriage of flesh and steel that is not supposed to exist, and an affront to everything we know. A danger to humanity."

"Given up on that diplomacy concept, I see," Danse deadpanned, turning back to work on his armor, checking the computer screen to make sure the operating systems were patching correctly.

"I'm serious," Maxson retorted, shifting slightly and wincing as he did so. "You are an Exile, dead to the Brotherhood. And yet you were nearby, close enough to save me. Wandering that close is dangerous...why **did** you save me? I don't understand."

Danse paused, fingers over keys, protein bar in his mouth, Nuka-Cola in hand. For a moment, only the beeping of Maxson's vitals monitor, coupled with ambient noise from the computers and the hum of the generator filled the bunker, as the ex-Paladin considered his answer. It had been a topic that had troubled him greatly too. General Grayson used to come visit periodically, and had asked the question of why he still felt such loyalty to the order that had banned him. But when war had broken out between the Minutemen and the Brotherhood, he had ceased. The General had found an answer and it was most likely true.

"I may no longer be a part of the Brotherhood, Arthur. I may no longer even be human. But," he set the bottle and the food down, taking a second to double check his updates before he continued. "I still believe in our...their mission. Protect humanity from its own foolishness. Stop the abuse of technology that led to the Great War. Annihilate any enemies to either of those two goals." He tugged his chair over to Maxson's bed, wiping greasy hands on an equally greasy work rag. "And I still believe in that mission. Whether you wish to have me or not."

A silence between them again. Maxson stared up at Danse, and where before the Exile would have seen a terrifying presence, here he saw a scarred and scared young man.

"I...need your help," Maxson finally admitted quietly. There was power in those words, power he was handing over to Danse. Maxson never asked for help from anyone. He ordered compliance, or requested assistance. But here, ex-Paladin Danse could see the artificial age peeled off. He'd been serving even before Maxson had, and he'd helped out many soldiers in need, just like the young Elder before him.

"I know, Arthur. That's why I'm here."

Another pause. A silent acceptance.

"This isn't going to gain you any mercy, though. Synth."

"I know that too, Arthur."

* * *

 **South Boston Military Zone, The Castle, the Canteen**

Shaun Grayson wasn't like a lot of kids in the Commonwealth. Most took what solace they could in their few toys and the games they could play with others, always aware that their lives could change in an instant. Even as safe as it was now, the Commonwealth was still a dangerous place, settlements only affording perhaps the illusion of safety.

Shaun didn't have many friends aside from Nat Wright, and his toys mostly consisted of the gadgets he played with. He'd reassembled radios, done work on laser rifles, restored terminals and even started on his own robotics project with input from Sturges and Kasumi (Isabel didn't feel safe teaching an eleven year old how to build warbots). Here at the Castle, where it was safest, he often sketched his plans and fiddled with scrap to make parts for this eventual project, though he still wasn't sure how it would end up. His father had restored the sentry bot SARGE, labeling him the successor mark of 2.0 (Shaun admitted the extra armor and additional firepower were a boon, but had to shake his head at his dad's shoddy coding skills), but Shaun wanted to leave his endgoal open, given how long it would take him.

Back to the present. Shaun had taken up the habit of occupying the far corner of the Castle's bar, a rickety wooden shack on the pier tucked against the Castle's east side. Boats from Minutemen patrols and supply barges to places like Taffington, Kingsport and Warwick (formerly Croup Manor as well) came through the Castle in a regular buzz, and with them a constant flow of merchants, sailors and haulers. This flow, as well as the Castle garrison, made the Canteen a tasty profit. The owner, a civilian named Mick Hayder who had originally tried his hand as a traveling merchant, but found much better business tying himself to a military post inside a secured zone with a constant customer base. Most people in the Commonwealth didn't care what age you started drinking (turned out the concept of ID cards didn't exist anymore, to Shaun's humiliation in Diamond City) so Hayder let Shaun hang out in the bar with the other soldiers and sailors, taking up a corner table to himself and paging through recovered textbooks and Tesla magazines. His drafting wasn't professional, but it made sense to him, and he could work off it.

Shaun's memory of the past ten years of his life was fuzzy at best. While he remembered he grew up in the Institute under Father, details escaped him. The names of people he interacted with, what specific rooms looked like, even the reason he was there in the first place evaded him, though someone had to have said it at some point. But the invasion was still clear in his mind. He'd escaped his cell and fled to the teleporter nexus, ducking through the fighting and finding a party of Minutemen...and his real father. Shaun had to admit, his father both fit his mental image of the man perfectly and poorly at the same time. While seemingly impossible, it was the truth. He'd pictured a tall man with dark hair, tanned skin and well armed. What he saw that day was a hulking mass of thick blue combat armor, covered by a duster, a rifle and lightning bolt crossed over the breastplate. A huge laser rifle was held in one hand, and his face obscured by a mask. The reluctance and hesitation to take the boy had hurt, but in the end Shaun was still here, still out of the Institute.

But since then, the General had been isolated. If he wasn't busy or traveling, he shut himself away in his quarters. The Minuteman-Brotherhood War had raged, and then ended. Still nothing from his father. Shaun saw him rarely, heard from him less than that. For the most part, Piper had been his more constant companion, watching out for him the same as she did for Nat. When Diamond City Security escorted them back to the Publick or Home Plate after some escapade, Piper was always ready with a stern word, but would also come home with a Nuka-Cola or two for them both after she'd been gone all day. Shaun had never had a mother figure, and he knew his birth mom was dead for some time. Piper, for all intents and purposes, had taken it upon herself to take up that role, and Shaun had needed it without even knowing it.

The thumping of boots on floorboards cut through the noise of the crowd. To Shaun's mind, that either meant the footsteps themselves were extremely loud or, more likely, the chatter had died off somewhat. Shaun glanced up to find himself looking up at the very man he'd been thinking about, standing over him with an unreadable expression on his face. Nearby, several Minutemen were watching quietly, sipping their beers to seem busy. Shaun was apprehensive. His few interactions with his father hadn't exactly set much of a standard for him. It was hard to get the measure of a man in short, five minutes talks.

He realized, oddly, he didn't even know his own dad's first name.

The General nodded down, glancing at Shaun's drawings and books. Behind him, Dogmeat sat and panted, tilting his head as he watched his master.

"You look busy," he stated, and Shaun noticed that he barely had to raise his voice to be audible.

"It's just a hobby," the boy replied, suddenly defensive. He apparently hadn't heard about his close encounter with the mongrel in the ruins. Or maybe he had, and that's why his dad was here. But the General's mouth quirked, a corner turning up.

"Oh? Quite a hobby. I didn't learn about robotics myself until I was twice your age." He leaned in, studying the rough schematics, and Shaun suddenly felt under inspection. He gulped quietly.

General Grayson took only a minute, frowning as his eyes followed the drawn circuits.

"What's it supposed to be? Looks like you started with a Protectron, but these hardened transistors are from a sentry bot. Is that an auxiliary processor? That's from an Assaultron."

Shaun shifted a little, uneasily. "I started simple. I'm adding where I think I can improve the design. It's...sorta just becoming its own thing."

Grayson nodded, straightening as he stepped around the table, tugging out the chair and taking a seat. He reached up, sliding his officer's cap off and running a hand over his short hair (apparently, the General had gotten a haircut recently) before simply tossing the hat on the table and signaling to Hayder for a drink. The bartender stepped over, setting down a bottle of Gwinnett and taking the caps from the General before disappearing once more. Grayson started with a gulp before edging closer to the table, and it suddenly occurred to Shaun that the man may have felt just as awkward as he did.

They were quiet for a time, neither one looking at each other. Shaun read at the same page of Tesla Science over and over again, while Grayson was reading the words in an article of the Publick posted on the nearby bulletin board. Neither of them tried to restart an interaction. Neither knew the first step to take. How do you connect with someone you've been apart from for a decade?

At last, however, it was the General who made the bridge.

"You've been doing okay in school?"

Shaun jerked his head up with a start. Given that the Castle and Diamond City were separated by less than a day's journey, he'd come to visit quite often. Sometimes Shaun stayed here a few days, sometimes he went back almost the next day. It made little difference to him, since the chance to pick through sites along the route was the main source of most of his parts, but the fact his father was asking about his class performance was surprising given he'd barely given the boy a handful of glances this trip.

"Uh...yeah. Mister Zwicky says I've got a good grips on...well, everything. Mrs. Edna says I could probably teach the class." A slight exaggeration, but it neatly summarized a lot of conversations. Shaun didn't have any trouble with the class content, his problem was mostly with the other kids. Gavin Everitts specifically thought him a rival and Pete Pembroke made fun of Shaun for being absent frequently. Shaun wasn't used to this kind of treatment. He couldn't fathom why they teased him like that, but at least he had Nat around to watch his back.

Grayson merely chuckled, taking another swig of his beer before replying "Good. Won't get you out of going to school, though."

Damn, Shaun thought.

The General continued. "Doing better than I was. I didn't do too well in school. If I hadn't enlisted, I probably wouldn't have done so well." A pause. From what Shaun had heard, his father had survived the Great War through a series of good luck occurrences. If one thing had been different, he'd never have lived through to 2287. A scary thought indeed. "You get good shooting practice from Colonel Shaw?"

An involuntary glance to the corner at this point, at the comfy red armchair and ottoman there. On one side was a side table with an ashtray and mounted on the wall above was a stuffed deathclaw head next to a gun rack holding an extensively customized laser musket. The chair held a small sign that said 'Reserved'. No one dared to sit in Colonel Shaw's VIP spot.

"Yeah. She says I'm a bit small for the bigger weapons. But I've been doing okay on the range."

The General nodded, seeming to consider this for a moment before he leaned back, picking up a package Shaun hadn't noticed he'd set against the wall. He gently set it down on the table, on top of the schematics and books but not in an invasive way...there just wasn't much room on the surface. His gloved hands quickly undid the wrappings, and the whole of it fell away to reveal a compact bolt-action rifle inside, with a small magazine and a scope mounted on top. Shaun blinked, looking the weapon over. It was just the right size for him.

"Wanna go hunting?" his father asked, with the first honest smile Shaun had ever seen.

* * *

Curie didn't think herself a shopkeeper. The fact she sold medical supplies and services from the Castle was not the same as making a profit. She was more than happy to help travellers and civilians who came stumbling through the gates, and the caps she made went into the Castle's vault. She had little use for profit herself, and nothing to spend it on outside of what the Minutemen needed. Curie had dedicated herself to the one organization that, it seemed, was trying to fix the Commonwealth. Such a shame, when everyone had so much potential. The Institute had access to directories full of pre-war information with which they could have finally helped heal the world, the Brotherhood of Steel had drive and manpower, the Railroad was able to exploit information to their benefit. But all three were so deeply flawed, and now all that was left was for the Minutemen to pick up the pieces.

She sighed as she viewed her clipboard, taking a moment to lament. What kind of future was there for the world?

After giving herself a moment to think that over (and another second to wonder at how she was so distracted by sentiment lately) she returned to her patient, a Minuteman with a bullet wound from a Raider during an attack on Libertalia the other day. With Croup Manor destroyed and Minutemen East still regrouping at County Crossing, most of the wounded from countryside patrols were either coming here or going to Starlight, whichever was closer. The Castle's medical ward was substantial, but the influx was beginning to overwhelm her medics. They were not doctors, after all.

Fortunately, Weathers had kept a tight shift while she'd been in Diamond City. Three patients had even been discharged, freeing up space. She just wished she had more time to teach additional personnel. Medical minds were in desperate shortage in this city.

"Ma'am," said Corporal Finch, calling her over from the entrance to the infirmary. "Message for you."

"Oui, Jake?" Curie asked, settling her clipboard down on her desk.

"Training room just went through a big spell. They've got a bunch of bruises, strained muscles and bloody noses."

"Ah. Well, at least there are no fatalities," Curie joked, taking up her medical bag. A few bandages, some med-x, some stimpacks and a little buffout for those strained muscles. She liked taking on the training accidents personally. It was good practice on actual injuries. When she had the personnel and reach for it, she might start bringing trainees in for some real hands on experience. Alas, a lack of medical universities meant each combat medic had to be personally brought up, or innately familiar with keeping people alive. She had to one day find out where the various doctors of the wasteland got their certifications...perhaps she could refound a center of education herself.

This happened to Curie a lot. At times, her train of thought would go stringing off into the horizon, and she would find herself in a completely different place than she had been before she had begun, in the middle of a task she hadn't realized she'd picked up.

Lately, she'd found that her thoughts were locked on a certain scarred General…

Her shoulder exploded in pain, and she realized she was passing down a hallway, after having just been knocked into by a Minuteman. She mumbled an apology, but the soldier was already gone, and there was the traffic here in the tunnels to deal with. Quickly, she pressed to the side, letting the line by. The Castle wasn't as large as it seemed, despite everything packed into it. Plans were already being made to begin construction of additional facilities across the new Military Zone with the reclaimed structures, all to take the strain off the already packed fortress.

Curie finally merged into the line after a moment or two, following the tunnels until she came to the underground fighting ring, where hand to hand combat training was drilled in by bloody trial. This is where Cait did most of her work, walking Minutemen trainees through the use of their blades and fists. A rack of serrated machetes stood against a wall, their blades dulled to reduce the chance of injury. Combat knives were mounted on dummy rifles to be used as bayonets, but the place that saw the most use was the fighting ring in the center, Cait temple and place of rule. Six Minutemen in various states of injury sat on the benches around the ring, several hunched over in pain. In the ring, Cait was duking it out with a large, tough bruiser. While not a small woman, Cait's new muscle mass put her on par with the soldier a head taller than her, and Curie was having a difficult time tracking their movements.

Finally, the redhead caught the soldier's limb in an arm bar, pulling all the way through and delivering a sharp elbow strike to the ribs. The man dropped, and Cait backed away, arms raised in victory, whooping in the small room. She glanced over at her injured trainees, leaning against the ropes as she surveyed the damage, perhaps deciding enough was enough for the day.

"Okay, ye all look like ye've learned a couple a' tings. Go on and get patched up, c'mon back when yer ready for another round. I'll be waitin' ta educate ye."

She turned back, offering her last victim a hand to haul him back to his feet, to which the soldier limped his way out between the ropes, hobbling over to the bench. Curie immediately stepped forward, checking him for permanent injury, worried about potential arm or rib fracture. Luckily, he was merely suffering severe bruising and the effects of hyperextension on his elbow joint. She quickly wrote up a small note, slipping it to the soldier so he could get looked at in the infirmary, while also dispensing two 800mg painkiller tablets, rare in this world but fortunately making a comeback.

Before Curie could move on to the other injured trainees, Cait finally noticed her, and called out "Oi, egghead!" The redheaded cage fighter was leaning against the ropes, a canteen held lazily in one hand as she took a few slow gulps. "Was wondering if they'd send ye down. Been wantin' to talk to ya."

Curie shot her a confused look, but before she could say anything Cait had already vaulted the ropes, taking Curie by the arm and yanking her away.

"Ah! My patients!"

"Eh, don' worry about 'em. They'll be fine a few minutes while you an' I have some girl chat," Cait replied flippantly. She put an elbow out, pushing the door to the locker room open. It slammed into the opposite wall, slamming loudly. Curie was yanked inside, her while coat fluttering as she stumbled, barely avoiding tripping over the bench. The door slammed shut behind them.

"Really, Mademoiselle Cait! This is rather-"

"Why'd ye do it, ye little robobitch," Cait delivered coldly, and it was only now that Curie noticed her wrapped knuckles were covered in blood, and clenched tightly. She thought to how muscled and big those Minutemen were that Cait had so effortlessly floored, and realized the Irish lass would have no trouble snapping Curie over knee like a broomstick.

"Do...I don't understand."

"Bullshite," Cait spat, looming ever closer. She was just an inch over Curie, but now she seemed to dominate the entire locker room, eyes dark and locked on, her very presence taking up every spare inch. Curie has felt fear plenty since becoming human, but this was simply terrifying, coming from one she saw as a friend. "Ye went right in an' snapped Grayson up, right in front of me. An' after I gave ye the damned suggestion!"

She froze, and Curie swore she saw a flash of fear and rage across Cait's face. The redhead slowly raised a curled fist, her eyes narrowed as she focused in on her target, which Curie suddenly realized was her own face.

"Ye...did you-"

It seemed Cait was so furious she couldn't even vocalize her rage, but if the doctor synthette didn't do something, she felt she might just be an ugly smear across the backwall. Or that might be the fear coursing through her, but the danger of physical harm was indeed real.

"Non! He...he turned me down!"

That immediately put out the fire in Cait's eyes, and the lass dropped her fist partway, haltingly, her face screwed up in confusion, still trying to process what she'd just heard. Cait's workout shirt was a white tank top (with the words "Suns Out Guns Out") and the sweat soaked into it had seemed to be pouring out of her in fury. Now, as she deflated from being a Mad Titan, her shirt seemed dry, her shoulders slumped. She no longer seemed to fill up the room, and the sheer and utter astoundment rolling off Cait was palpable.

When she could finally speak again, it was in a much less aggressive tone, quieter but firm as she slowly asked "He...he did what?"

"He pushed me away. Told me he was taken by surprise. Apparently, I...what is the word...blindsided him?"

"Blindsided all of us really," Cait quipped drily, but there was no vinegar behind the comment as she tried to think through this news. That had clearly not been in her planned offensive, and now the redhead had to withdraw and think through her new plan of attack. Cait was good at killing things, preferably with her bare hands or some kind of blunt instrument. She was also good at backtalk, drinking and weightlifting. But having to think on the fly outside of combat wasn't her forte, and she was suffering for it by not being able to properly process this new piece of information.

Finally, she realized Curie was still looking up at her expectantly, and her fist fell all the way down now. She thought through the situation for a moment before sighing, taking a seat on the bench and tugging at her boxing straps.

"Well...shite. Now here I am, made a whole fuckin' fool a' myself fer nothin'. He tell ya what was wrong with ya?"

Curie shook her head, normally calm face twinged with a bit of remorse.

"Er...no. He merely pushed me away and said he 'must think things over'. I have not seen him since. And everytime I think about it myself, my chest gets tight, and my eyes begin to leak. I am...not sure why. For some reason…" Here, Curie paused. She herself was having a difficult time vocalizing her thoughts, though not out of inability to speak. Normally, if she thought or felt something, she just said it. She had not yet learned social customs or mores, and was only just becoming aware of the term 'blunt.' But she soldiered on. "For some reason, though he has turned away my advances, I find the General is on my mind even more. I have trouble focusing. I cannot work, I lose track of time. I thought telling him how I felt would make things better, like in the old films from before the war. But now..."

Again, a loss for words, Curie merely shrugged, tugging at the hem of her white coat awkwardly as she stared at the floor, noting the old stonework beneath their feet. The locker room was clearly meant for some other purpose, but what it could be was lost on her. She was not familiar with sensations like embarrassment or awkwardness, but lately it had washed over her in waves. When men flirted with her, she had taken quite a long time to understand what they were doing, and still she was unable to completely follow along with their intent. But after being rejected, she was suddenly intimately familiar with the ashen taste of an intent lost.

Cait glanced up again, her straps now completely unbound. Her hair had been tugged back into a messy ponytail, but a few sweaty locks had come loose and dangled into her face. She pushed it back, watching Curie carefully. Honestly, the girl was blushing fiercely and fidgeting nervously, practically on the verge of fainting it seemed. Cait groaned in aggravation. She'd seen this sort of naivety on women before, and she had to head it off now. It sort of **was** her and Piper's fault for causing this situation, giving the poor girl the advice they had. The General was a hot mess of emotions, always had been. Cait could understand anger and hurt and fear, but General Grayson had been utterly crushed since the Prydwyn had gone down. Now he seemed to be getting back into the warrior spirit Cait had...known for so long. Cait may not know much about stupid shit like romance or dating, but she knew you give someone their space.

"Listen, Egghead. Ye put yer heart out there an it got turned back. Now...it don' sound like an actual rejection, I guess. Mebbe some hope dere." She bit back the threat behind her teeth. She was in lecture mode right now, and it wouldn't be right if she cut the girl down.

Curie, however, tilted her head to the side, gazing down at Cait inquisitively. She didn't like it, and she narrowed her eyes in return.

"What?"

"...why are you so interested, Mademoiselle Cait?"

Out in the training room, the soldiers were checking each other over. By now, strained ligaments had healed to the point of at least movement, bloody noses had staunched and slowed, and with no sign of their instructor or medic they decided it was time to hike off to the barracks.

But as the Minutemen hobbled out, a ruckus abruptly seemed to break out from the locker room. The regulars, wisely, decided to stay away from that door, as it sounded like Cait was hauling off on something else again. It didn't concern them, she hauled off all the time. That said, they weren't stupid enough to approach that door.

That rule didn't apply to the woman sitting on the bench next to the locker room door, who had paused in scribbling on her notepad.

Piper Wright had walked in a few minutes ago, looking for a certain Irish lass. And she could now hear Cait's embarrassed yelling as she tried in vain to drown out Curie's questions.

And suddenly the situation was now even more complicated.

* * *

 **Southern Commonwealth**

 **Near Jamaica Plain**

Normally, this part of the Commonwealth was horrifically dangerous. Technically every part was, but in the far south the wilderness of the frontier blended with the war for the city. Super Mutant raiding parties, Gunner recon teams, wandering feral ghouls, roving raider parties and Minuteman squads on their way to clear out another area. But it was also the best place to go looking for possible game. North Boston was too far for a walk from the Castle, and the city proper too dangerous to simply stroll through.

The South had seen some pacification, after all. Ghoul packs had been culled, the Super Mutants keeping their heads down and the Gunners had forted up after the Battle of Boston Commons. Now might be the best time to try this sort of venture.

Shaun had changed into slightly more appropriate field clothes. A rough shirt and jacket as well as a kid's pair of boots. He also wore a red ballcap, which he was quite grateful for as the June sun beat down on his head. He was still getting used to sun, after all. The Institute had been sterile, white and clean. Even now he could forget how bright it could be to simply step out of a door. He'd experienced how rough the terrain could get, but here Shaun was struggling to keep up with Dogmeat, who just seemed to melt through the landscape, in and out of buildings in mere seconds.

Just behind, his father trudged behind him through the muck. South Boston commonly flooded, and no one went out without expecting to pick up an inch of grime. He'd taken up a combat shotgun from the armory one that Shaun had noticed he'd loaded with solid slugs. When he'd asked why his father had opted for something like that when they were supposed to hunt from a longer distance, his dad had replied "because Deathclaws are ambush predators."

He looked intimidating. His dark duster helped him blend into his surroundings, while the chalk blue armor he wore underneath promised he was well protected. Gone was the captain's cap, in its place a Minuteman wide-brimmed hat. His scars were visible in this light, and Shaun suppressed a light shudder. Not only at how his father's iron gaze seemed to be made all the more hard by the marks of violence on him, but also by the thoughts they inspired in him. About how he'd acquired every single one.

The General nodded to his son, shooting him what Shaun was certain was supposed to be a reassuring smile, but came out looking like an uncomfortable grimace. The boy turned back, staring out at the horizon. He'd never walked this far outside of a settlement before. To him, this whole area was hostile and wild, and to him even buildings might hold something they could eat. His walks from Diamond City to the Castle had only been slightly more contained. Still, he needed some direction, at least.

"Uh...which way?" he asked, scanning the plains before him, trying to peer past the loosely clustered trees.

"Your hunt. Make your best guess."

Shaun glanced back. The trees here had started sprouting summer green, resisting the radiation infused muck (which only made sense. After two-hundred years, foliage would have recovered by now in low rad areas) and breaking up the view ahead. Shaun wasn't completely certain where he was going at this point, but he'd heard from hunting parties that the best place to find radstags (a much easier kill than mirelurks, which were at least simple to find) was as far from the city as one could get.

"South?" he suggested. The General raised an eyebrow, which Shaun noticed made half of the large burn scar on his father's cheek stretch slightly, giving the effect that his entire face had moved.

"Are you asking, or telling?"

"Uh…" Suddenly, Shaun wasn't so sure. What would happen if they went out into the wild and didn't bring back anything? Was this a test, or just his father making an attempt to reach out to his son? He felt the pressure almost choking him with panic, and couldn't tell if it wasn't all in his head. He tried again, swallowing down his uncertainty. "Yeah, south."

The General simply nodded wordlessly, tilting his chin in the direction described. Now committed, Shaun took a breath, gritting his teeth as he turned, hoping at the very least he might bag a mole rat or something.

They walked quietly for a few minutes, Dogmeat sniffing the way ahead. The ground became solid, then street, then back to wild terrain again. Shaun sniffed, glancing around at the building in the distance once more. He could see the empty flooded district of Hyde Park from here, a former Raider hideout before turf fights between the Minutemen, Super Mutants and Gunners had torn through the place. Now Hyde Park was useless and abandoned. No one wanted to be caught between all that fighting.

The General pulled out a set of field glasses, scanning the view to the south. It was quiet here. Early afternoon was beginning to fade, and the sun to the west was slowly descending through the sky. Shaun blinked, turning away and glancing back where they'd come. He'd heard plenty of stories of men and monsters that would follow lone parties into the wastes, waiting until their guard was down before springing the trap. His recent brush with the mutant dog in South Boston had gotten his mind racing, and now he wondered which of those shadows held a Ghoul ready to devour him, which Overpass was home to a sniper scoped in on him. Whereas before it just seemed hazardous, the Commonwealth had changed in his view to lethal.

"Looks clear," the General finally said, reaching over and squeezing Shaun's shoulder. "C'mon. Let's bag something before it gets dark."

They set out again, Shaun taking point once more. Though the quiet was probably preferable for the hunt and their surroundings, the boy suddenly found himself bubbling with questions. A hundred burned through his brain, but the first that finally came out was "Are you sure this gun can down a radstag? I mean...they're kinda big."

"Sure," his father said offhandedly. "I used to take deer down all the time with two-two-three rounds in Texas. That's chambered in good old Army issue five-point-five-six, and Radstags don't have much meat on them. Get a good shot in a thin place, you'll drop it."

Shaun's ears perked up, and he turned his head. "You're from Texas?"

The General's response was to frown in return. "You **know** what Texas is?"

"Yeah. Biggest state in the Union. Well, aside from Alaska, of course. Center of the Texas Commonwealth."

General Grayson nodded, looking genuinely pleased for once. "Very good. They teach you a lot in that school, yeah? I'm from a small town called Seguin, outside Austin. I'll...tell you more about it later. Long story."

The silence returned, but less obtrusive this time. There wasn't as much tension, and Shaun felt like he had actually got through to his father. It was only a few minutes before he spoke again.

"Sir, can I ask you a question?"

"No sir."

"Huh?"

"I'm not one of those fathers that makes his own son call him 'sir'. My father did that to me, my grandfather did that to him. I hated it. So I'm not going to make you do it."

Shaun glanced up, a frown on his face. He wasn't even aware he'd called his father that. The Institute scientists insisted on proper respect, and even Father had instructed Shaun to maintain proper etiquette. But calling his own father 'dad' hadn't really set in yet. It hadn't felt right before, a little forced. But now, 'sir' wasn't right either.

The General continued. "So what were you going to ask?"

Shaun hesitated, suddenly no longer sure. He felt like he'd gotten somewhere, he didn't want to make things weird again with a question that would get on his dad's bad side. But his dad seemed to value decisiveness, and they needed to break the tension somehow.

"Do you like Miss Curie?"

The General paused, considering the question as he observed his son. Shaun suddenly felt very small. Finally, a response.

"We're not talking about that."

"But she kissed you." The words were out of Shaun's mouth, blunt and direct, before he could stop them. And now here the General stopped walking, looking down at Shaun with a strange expression on his scarred face.

"Heard about that, did you?"

Shaun shrugged. "The whole base was talking about it. Then everyone shut up."

"Then they know better to move on to something else." General Grayson seemed to ponder the issue, chewing on his bottom lip, lost in thought, and Shaun held his breath.

"Curie is...important to me. I consider her a good friend. It's complicated."

"So you don't want to be with her?"

"Nat is a gossiper," Grayson said, partially to remind himself as to confirm the fact out loud. "Look, Shaun. It's not that easy to consider, okay? I've never thought of her that way. Now I have to consider the fact that she sees **me** like that."

"Miss Wright likes you."

Now that got the General's attention. He let the shotgun drop, propping the stock in the mud as he leaned forward, an intense look on his face. "Piper? Really? Nat tell you that too?"

Shaun nodded. "Miss Wright also talks in her sleep."

Grayson flinched, a look of horror on his face as he straightened up, groaning in irritation. "Of course. Dammit. Now I got that to deal with. Look, Shaun…". Grayson stopped again, trying to figure out a way to explain to the eleven year old. "There's a lot going on. I've got the Minutemen to run, trying stay on good terms with the settlements, keep track of the Railroad, pun unintended. I'm just...not really ready for anyone else in my life, see? Now, we should-"

"Is it cause of what happened to mom?"

If Shaun had ever made a tragic mistake in his short life, that was it right there. For a moment, his father disappeared, and in his place came the General of the Minutemen, full bore. He felt so small compared to this man, this titan of military might who had torn apart two all-powerful entities with sweat and blood. For a moment, Shaun felt like he was in the most danger in his life, as Grayson glared down at him silently, fuming with deadly intent. Behind him, Dogmeat whined, ears pinned back.

Almost a full minute went by before the older man finally responded "We're not talking about this." Wordlessly, Shaun simply nodded, and Grayson took point, not looking back as he declared "Let's get back to it."

For nearly a half hour, they walked in silence. Moreso than when they had first set out. South became southwest, and they found themselves out in the marshes on the route to Quincy. Ruined houses and abandoned cars dotted the landscape, and Shaun suddenly felt exposed here, as if something was about to leap out at them from nearby. The setting sun didn't help that, and the summer heat was beginning to leach out of the humid air, leaving instead a chill to the breath. They couldn't stay here.

Just when Shaun was beginning to wonder if it might be a better idea to ask to turn back, Dogmeat gave a quiet yip, and the General tugged out his field glasses, gazing at something on the horizon. He hummed quietly, gesturing Shaun forward.

"Got one! Over there, by that stand of trees on the hill ahead."

Now caught up in the moment, Shaun moved to his father's side, squinting into the distance. He couldn't see anything at first, but after raising his rifle scope to his eye and searching for a moment, he finally saw the shifting, mottled form in the trees. A radstag of course, sniffing across the mud and searching for greens to consume. The second head sort of wobbled a little, aimless as if it wasn't sure what it was doing. Given that the form of a radstag was awkward and unnatural, that didn't come as much of a surprise. The General tugged on Shaun's arm, pulling him over to a small rise. A fallen log was astride this rise, and it was here that his father indicated, so Shaun laid down, using the log as a prone rest, adjusting his rifle until it sat naturally and he was comfortable, just like Colonel Shaw taught him on the range. Grayson grunted in approval, taking a knee next to him and turning his field glasses downrange again. Dogmeat lay down next to Shaun, hiding in the tall, dark grass, panting quietly.

"Okay, your target's about a hundred meters away. Wind's blowing towards us. He isn't moving towards us. Damn, he's skinny. Still, means less mass to stop your shot...see his ribcage? And the upper part of his leg? See if you can plant your shot between them, right in that little valley." Shaun quietly adjusted his aim, remembering to account for bullet drop and the wind. Colonel Shaw had only addressed those once, but he had personally gone back through a few physics textbooks to try and understand the concept.

"I...I think I have the shot," he whispered, still unsure of how good a radstag's hearing was. Were they far enough away? The breeze was light, but what if it changed direction suddenly?

What if he missed?

"Right. Squeeze the trigger when you're lined up. Don't pull it, and don't rush yourself. You 'll jerk your shot. You want the shot to surprise you. All the time in the world right now...just gently squeeze. Keep adding pressure every few seconds, a bit at a time." Shaun's finger, curled against the cold steel, began pulling ever so slightly. In his sights, the radstag paused, glancing around with both heads, sniffing the air with a nose and licking it with a tongue. Shaun's crosshairs were dead on target, and with his dad quietly encouraging him right next to him and the silence of the air around him, Shaun could almost believe he could hit a fly at that moment.

"There we go...you're doing good. Squeeze at your time, not his. Just give it a-" A pause. "Wait…"

But Shaun was in the zone right now. He felt like he was reaching out towards this creature, so far away but so close through a simple glass optic. Right now, the mutated deer's life (lives?) was held in Shaun's hand, whether he followed through and fired, or missed and the animal escaped. He just had to…

The varmint rifle bucked against his shoulder, and the round flew as a _crack_ split the air. Shaun could almost could the second between the gunshot and when the round landed, but as he watched the radstag's side suddenly rippled, a dark hole appearing right in the perfect spot, the animal staggering and yelping in pain as it ran a few yards and then collapsed.

"Yes!" he cried, looking up from his scope at his father. He expected to see a proud face, or a smile behind the field glasses as he watched his son's first kill go so well.

"SHAUN!"

What he saw instead was the Chameleon Deathclaw, originally grey as the house it had been lurking behind, lunging towards him as its skin turned blood red. For a moment, Shaun's blood ran cold as the vicious predator seemed to close the distance between them in a heartbeat. Everything was moving in slow motion...he could see the claws, long and capable of skewering a man each, the toothy maw wide, oh so wide almost as if it could swallow him whole, the beady yellow eyes full of hate and viciousness and hunger. Shaun was paralyzed by this monster as it closed in on him.

In that moment, he was dead. Nowhere to run, no time to move.

Until General Grayson stepped between Shaun and the beast, reaching up and somehow grabbing the creature's horns. Trying to stop this thing was like trying to hold back a diving Vertibird, however, and in a moment the man was sent flying end over end, back towards the ruined house where he smashed through a wall. Before Shaun could process the horror of the situation, however, Dogmeat was on the creature, baying and growling, taking a scaly wrist in his teeth and digging in hard. The deathclaw roared, more out of annoyance, and grabbed the dog with his other hand, tossing Dogmeat away before continuing to advance on Shaun, resuming its reach towards him.

"Hey, You ugly motherfucker!"

 **BOOM**

Abruptly, blood and viscera flew from the Deathclaw's side, and the creature turned only to get a similar result as something small and swift smashed into its face, destroying part of its jaw.

"C'mon you fucking bitch! I'm right here!

 **BOOM**

And again, as the Deathclaw tried to blow whatever was coming at it, holding an arm up even as another geyser of blood fountained on the limb, roaring in pain and rage as it stepped back, away from the boy.

"You want a fight, get your ass over here you bastard!"

 **BOOM**

Emerging from the house, battered but still definitely alive, General Grayson advanced, shotgun to his shoulder as he squeezed off carefully lined up shots, letting out curses and insults with every breath. Everytime he pulled the trigger more holes stitched up the creature, and the Deathclaw slowly began to back off. Dogmeat renewed the attack, jumping in and out between shots, gnawing and biting and leaping. It looked like they were really going to bring it down.

Until Grayson's shotgun suddenly went **clack**. The bolt locked open.

The General turned to Shaun, dropping the empty drum magazine, fingers reaching for a new one.

"RUN!"

Shaun ran. He ran faster than he ever had before. He dashed around the wrecked building, and took off down the ruined street, dodging past ruined cars. In the distant, he heard the cracking of the shotgun again, Dogmeat barking and the snarls of the Deathclaw as the battle raged behind him. His boots splashed into marsh and he stumbled, but he didn't care as he stood again and continued running. He didn't know how far he ran, or for how long, but when he finally stopped it was because he fell to his knees in some abandoned, overgrown yard, coughing and wheezing as spittle dripped from his mouth. He drew ragged breaths, struggling just to suck down oxygen. This went on for at least a few minutes.

"Hey, where the fuck did he come from?"

A massive hand suddenly wrapped around Shaun's throat, lifting the boy up out of the grass. Already air deprived, he could feel his mind starting to black out, his vision fading as he tried to look down at his captor. But all he could make out was a skull with an X on its forehead.

* * *

 **Ticonderoga Safehouse, Railroad HQ**

When Desdemona finally emerged (after two days of full sleep, full meals, little caffeine and two-hundred year old crossword puzzles) she was supposed to be in isolation another week. Carrington had ordered that anyone who saw her return her back to her quarters. But she'd played along, and as a result when she came out with a copy of the Publick in one hand and a coffee in the other she looked far healthier, far more like she had been before. As a result, the heavy standing guard in the command room merely glanced her way, smiled and nodded, tilting his head towards her three senior agents, heads bowed and voices low in discussion, poring over an old map of Boston, heavily annotated.

She smiled. Another day in the Railroad.

Ticonderoga was empty, strangely. Headquarters had been so badly mauled by the Institute and the Brotherhood that even with rooms handed out like crazy, the operations center was quiet. Another reminder of the loss. Desdemona's eye caught the board of lost agents, and while it certainly hurt, for once she could live with the pain.

As she stepped over to the table Bullseye, Carrington and Tinker Tom all looked up. While Carrington remained silent but glared at her, Tinker Tom began quietly reading through his notes regarding his suspicions over alien augmentation on people, Bullseye grunted and stepped in front of her.

"Dez…" the one-eyed marksman growled, crossing his arms over his chest. Roland Moore wasn't a large man by any means, whiplike and average height, but often it was his mere presence that made him seem larger than life. Despite the reputation of all snipers as cold and calculating, he had quite a temper on him if he let it get away. As their last remaining Alpha Heavy, he'd been running more and more interception ops before the Institute was taken out, and afterwards had waged a one-man war against the Brotherhood leading up to the Battle of Boston Commons. If not for the damage he'd inflicted on Maxson's Knights, HQ never would have made it to Ticonderoga. After the Minutemen got involved, of course, it was a different matter.

Bullseye swore that watching something as horrific as open battle tear apart an entire neighborhood was among one of the most terrifying things he'd ever seen through his scope.

Desdemona, however, waved him off.

"Bullseye, if I stay in there another minute, I'm going to go insane."

"Everyone insists it's a bad thing, but it really ain't so bad," Tom muttered without looking up, drawing stares from the others. Carrington sighed before stepping over to Desdemona, giving her a quick cursory check.

"At least you actually look like you got some rest. How are you feeling?"

"Cooped up and pissed off," she fired back instantly, and Carrington sighed as Bullseye chortled.

"Sounds like Dez on a normal day, alright."

Carrington shook his head, throwing his hands up. "Sure, let's just let -everyone- ignore my medical advice. Not like I studied hard to get my expertise. Should we just use tampons to plug bullet wounds now?"

A sharp slap over the head was his reward, while Bullseyes' chuckles turned to guffaws. Inappropriate jokes finally done with, Des took her former spot behind the map, staring at the situation of Boston and the surrounding towns. Information about each spot was written on the map itself and several dozen small notes taped onto the paper, written in various agents' recognizable scrawl. Deacon had come through here at one point, adding more information about Bunker Hill. There was Mary May about Outpost Zimonja. Another report from Caretaker was tossed to the side, and she ignored it for now. If Bullseye thought Mercer Safehouse and Salem Outpost were fine, they most likely didn't need her attention. But she started noticing other things. New info posted about various goings on and reports from across the Commonwealth, most of it not pertaining to synths at all. Shifts in supplies, new faces coming into the area, strange activity around Covenant, Raider hideouts purged by the Minutemen, movement off Spectacle Island.

This was a far more complete net than they needed. Someone had been busy doing a little extra study. She immediately focused on Carrington, but he simply shook his head. Her view next went to Bullseye, who stared back completely innocently.

"I didn't know there were synths being moved into the National Guard Training Yard," she said airily, taking a sip of her coffee (quite good, actually. When had she regained her sense of taste? When had she lost it?) before she gestured to the map. "Otherwise, why would it be vital that its becoming the new Minuteman East?"

Bullseye cleared his throat before he carefully replied "Ma'am, we decided keeping an eye on possible new routes is absolutely vital. Taking the road from Bunker Hill straight through County Crossing means passing the Yard. The Minutemen are setting up there, so watching them is-"

"Bullshit," Desdemona replied. "There's a reason we take that road. Because it's the place our people are least likely to stand out. They just look like another trade route, **and** there's a reduced chance of creature attacks so close to a Minuteman camp. Care to try again?"

Silence. Tom still hadn't looked up from his notepad, flipping through various pages. Carrington looked very much uncomfortable, though smug at the same time. And Bullseye, of course, grit his teeth and turned a bit red.

"You've been retasking agents," she said flatly, narrowing her eyes. "I'm guessing...the ones that don't work the roads or at Mercer, Cottage and Salem. We do have a dedicated intel team, Bullseye."

"And half of them are dead," the heavy retorted. "The other half, the one we still have hold on, don't dare go near settlements anymore. We can't fully rely on Tourists anymore, and Grayson's warned us about disguising as his soldiers. So I sent out a few more scouts...according to P.A.M. the algorithm is more stable now than in years."

"The algorithm is stable because the Minutemen blew up the Institute," Desdemona reminded him. "No more Coursers. No more synth response team teleporting into our rest areas. And with McDonough unmasked and executed, no more influence on the politicians. Let Diamond City and Goodneighbor freak out about synths in their ranks. Any that were actively serving the Institute are keeping their heads down, and they'll be a good smokescreen while we shelter the others. It's the operation model we agreed on. Right now, the Railroad's purpose is to find Institute survivors wandering the Commonwealth and safeguard synths in the settlements."

"Is it?" Bullseye asked, and Desdemona suddenly felt the weight of the armor-piercing question. It had been tossed around since the blast in Cambridge that the Railroad had won. Eventually, there would be no more synths in danger. The L&L Gang was steadily being picked off by precision Railroad assassins and Minutemen bludgeoning. Soon it might not even be safe for the Gunners to operate anymore, or so one could dream. Would the Railroad find a way to stay relevant?

The Brotherhood raid on the Church had put a pin in that question, but now they were in a better position to answer that question. And Desdemona wasn't sure she had an answer. So she settled for a tactic that had never failed her. Tactical aggression.

"You have an alternative? What should we be doing aside from safeguarding synths, which I might remind you is our founding purpose."

Bullseye raised an eyebrow, but knew the bluster was a front. There was no point to padding words or passive aggressiveness here, and they all knew it. They could all read each other too well, kept their cards too close to the chest at the same time and there were too few people here for it to have much effect. But to his credit, he let the comment slide as he quickly recovered, stepping over to the table.

"We just learned Hancock is heading to Diamond City."

"So what? He meets with the General in a lot of Minutemen outposts. Hangman's Alley is a bit out of his way, but I hear he likes to get out and about." Desdemona shrugged, prepared to put the issue to rest, but Bullseye held up a hand. The one-eyed bastard looked way to smug for his own good, and she was immediately suspicious.

"I didn't say Hangman's Alley."

And suddenly it clicked. Desdemona's eyes widened, and her coffee froze halfway to her lips. Her eyes flickered over to where Goodneighbor was on the map, where several notes and question marks had been scribbled down. Triggerman movements now that Sinjin and the local Raiders had been purged. The Super Mutants in Trinity Tower had forted up, though were being slowly forced out towards Hammer's group in West Everett. The Gunners had pulled back, and their new perimeter almost impossible to get through, but their own forays had ceased. Minutemen patrols and scavenging parties were constantly pushing through the Commons. Swan was dead, killed by an Enforcer patrol and several well-placed shells out of Minuteman-occupied Bunker Hill. If the Commons could ever be called 'safe' this was something close to it. Not a coincidence.

"Deacon get you this info?" Bullseye simply nodded, and she leaned against the table, staring down at the map as another agent stepped over, handing a document to Bullseye, who merely glanced at it and then nodded. The action was so automatic that the Railroad Alpha was thrown. Bullseye didn't appear to need much help in taking charge of Ticonderoga, and the feeling sat uneasy in her gut, that maybe her breakdown had caused a shift in power.

She looked down at the map, trying to piece things together. Why Diamond City? He'd be skinned alive there, if he made it through the gate. She checked several other settlements, searching for a pattern. Bullseye was asking her to see if his information was important enough to facilitate a purpose shift in the entire Railroad. They would go from an underground liberation movement to a black ops organization that rescued synths as a hobby (she mentally spat that word out. Did all those people on the wall die for nothing?).

And then, as she looked between Starlight and Vault 81, she spotted the connection. Mayor Huey Reed and Overseer Gwen McNamara respectively were beginning to close up business and make preparations for armed escorts to travel to Diamond City as well, in a week's time. She checked Bunker Hill. There was a note about Kessler denoting a deputy in charge during her leave. Sanctuary said Mayor Jun Long was already on his way out. There were a handful of others. County Crossing, Vault 88, Spectacle Island.

"Representatives from any settlement large enough to control an area with influence," she noted. "Where's **that** been seen before." It wasn't even a question, really. "So, he did it then. Grayson got the 2nd CPG up. Looks like they'll be meeting in Diamond City in a week to hash out the details. Good for them. Do we know when the Castle will send a Minuteman rep?"

Silence. Desdemona glanced up to find Bullseye glaring at the map, Tinker Tom finally pulled away from his notepad (after taking six more pages of notes and sketches, of course) and Carrington quietly urging another agent away with another report. This, apparently, was what Bullseye had wanted her to reach.

Finally, the heavy replied "Deacon says there is absolutely no indication that the Minutemen are receiving an invitation. In fact, at the orders of one Clarence Codman there is to be all attempts to **ensure** no Minutemen are made aware that they haven't been invited."

That was bad. Under the old Commonwealth, having the settlements disorganized and settlers constantly on the move was good for the Railroad. It helped to disguise their movements and keep people distracted, too busy staying alive to focus on those strange people creeping around ruined churches at night. Now, with the Commonwealth becoming more pacified every day, a new trend was emerging. Desdemona and Bullseye had known they needed to either work with the General or cut him out entirely. Seeing as he was one of the few outsiders who knew about Ticonderoga and how the Railroad operated, she'd opted for strengthening their alliance, but Bullseye had pointed out they didn't have much to bargain with.

Now they did.

"Get Deacon to Diamond City," she said immediately, gesturing an agent with a report forward. "And someone get a line to the Castle. They're going to want to hear this before it's too late."

They'd still safeguard the synths. But with the Institute and Brotherhood gone, it was time the Railroad did some good for the humans in the Commonwealth.

* * *

 **Shaw High School**

Grayson cursed, feeling his bruised ribs. Deathclaws smashed like trucks, and the armor had only protected him from being skewered. He hunkered further down in the shadowy corner, bandaging his wounds and injecting another stimpack. He didn't have Med-X on him right now, but the pain he could just ignore. Rage was a hell of an anesthetic, and right now he had plenty to burn..

"Son of a motherfucking bitch," he grunted as he tugged a new magazine out. When he'd gone on this hunt, he'd packed two drums full of slugs, and he had burned through those already on top of the mags of regular shells. Now he only had two more drums of buckshot left. He winced again but pushed on, slapping the magazine in place and racking the bolt.

Dogmeat leaned up against him, licking at Grayson's hand with a bloody muzzle. The General smiled, reaching over and gently scratching his faithful companion behind the ears, reward with several tail wags. This would be their only time to recover from the Deathclaw ambush, but neither wanted to wait. With Dogmeat's help, Grayson had tracked Shaun back here after the spot where he'd been abducted. Shaw High School, and by extension most of this area, had been Super Mutant territory just a few months back, but continued bombardment and purges of the area had convinced the greenskins it was time to move on. The area was slated for resettlement, but most felt who came to the area felt safer in the incomplete and now overpopulated Vault 88. Shocker. Regardless, Shaw High School was actually a great fortification. Few entrances, a defensible second story and plenty of places to turn into killzones. So it was little wonder Grayson had found a Gunner skull painted on the door.

The Gunners. Many people called them mercenaries. Others called them Raiders with good guns. But Grayson knew military tactics when he saw them. The Gunners were an organized force, taking orders with an agenda. The mercenary jobs were just to buy ammo.

And now they had stolen his son.

There were only a few things that had truly triggered General Grayson's "rage" as it was. The news that Kellogg was at Fort Hagen. Seeing the Mirelurk Queen while retaking the Castle. The Battle of Bunker Hill. Hearing of the Brotherhood raid on the Old North Church. The reports of the Brotherhood burning down farms. And now, when these Gunners had made the all too stupid mistake of laying hands on Shaun, whom he'd only just gotten back.

He checked his sidearm, his melee weapon and his armor plating. Then, he glanced towards the west, where the sun had just slipped down over the horizon, the streets darkening rapidly. Soon, night would truly settle in. Visibility would slip and the big bad predators would come out on the hunt. Grayson had done plenty of hunting at night, both game and men. Recently, machines had been added to that list. He cursed the fact that he hadn't thought to bring his laser rifle, but he really honestly hadn't thought a Deathclaw would attack. The odds had been more likely of a pack of mongrels, some ghoul stragglers or a few wandering Super Mutants. Minutemen patrols were constant because the net was completely foolproof, after all. Now, he was out here seriously undergunned, up against at least a dozen hostiles inside of a fortification they had taken time to fort up.

But in the end, that didn't matter. He wasn't leaving without Shaun.

He glanced down at Dogmeat as he checked his shotgun. As ready as he was going to be. He looked his companion dead in the eye.

"Ready to fuck some shit up?"

Dogmeat wagged his tail and woofed quietly.

When Shaun came to, it was gloomy and dark. The air, while cold, was no longer wet. He couldn't hear the outside world, no birds in the distance or the rattle of gunfire from downtown. No military orders, generators or rumble of troops on the move. No sounds of Vertibirds or the ocean. That all ruled out where he had fallen, the Castle or Spectacle Island. That didn't bode well at all.

"Where's the Sarge?"

"Said some shit about a terminal. She's coming."

Shaun's eyes cracked open, and he turned his head slightly, trying his best to get a view. He must have been dumped in a corner somewhere, because he could feel himself leaning against a wall. Nearby, a counter blocked off his view of the rest of the room, but he could see scrap, ruin and rust all around in the low light. Nearby, standing next to a hanging lantern, was a man in rags and a green shirt, wearing mismatched body armor. Just a chest plate and a thigh piece. He had a laser rifle slung over one shoulder, and from the glow and smoke emanating from his face he was currently puffing on a cigarette of some kind. Grimy hair and a belt with microfusion cells completed the look. The laser rifle was painted black and dark green, with tally marks in white across the barrel. And a skull with an X in the center.

A Gunner.

The merc was talking with another nearby, this one even worse equipped, wearing an old National Guard helmet and some kind of harness with his pants, his shotgun leaning against the wall next to him. These two must have been his guards, and they were talking about at least one other person, a Gunner sergeant. He racked his brain, trying to remember what Colonel Shaw had taught him about military tactics, what he'd read and what he'd heard about the Gunners, but knew it was pointless. Their own organization wasn't really comparable to others, even the Minutemen. All that mattered was they were far more dangerous than they looked.

He opened his eyes more, straining his ears and trying to limit his movement. He could hear others moving around near him, and the shadows on the wall told of a fire of some kind. Which meant he was in a Gunner camp inside a structure. In short, helpless. His rifle was gone, lost at some point he couldn't remember, whether it was during his mad dash or after he'd been captured. Fat lot of good the thing would do him now against a building of hardened mercenaries.

He listened for a few more minutes as he pretended to still be out of it, trying to map out where his captors were. His guards didn't seem so attentive. Maybe he'd get the chance to slip away. But he really didn't want to get shot, and fear caused him to lock up in, trying to decide what to do. He was eleven years old, trying to force past these men and women would just wind up in him getting hurt, or killed. He felt tears well up under his eyelids.

He wanted his dad. He wanted to go home.

Suddenly, a door opened in the room, and insistent footsteps came in.

"Shit's sake! What the fuck is wrong with you idiots!" The sound of several blows rang out, with shouts of protests. "Are the walls sealed up? Is the perimeter set? Are the turrets online? No the fuck they are not! So why the hell are you retards sitting in here like a bunch of jagoffs! Move, limpdick!"

That was definitely a firm kick, and three or four voices grumbling as they left the room, muttering curses at their abuse. The other occupants had fallen silent, likely grateful they hadn't been pulled for this detail. The footsteps stomped across the room, until the gruff woman was close to Shan's guards, both of whom had straightened up so they looked more attentive, weapons in hand and watching whoever she was carefully.

"So what's the story here?"

"Ma'am, Syler and Davies caught this kid outside. He looked like he was being chased by something, but whatever it was must have lost him."

"Boy looked like he was damn near gonna piss himself, Sarge. Put up a bit of a fight, so I just choked him out and dragged him in. Maybe we can find out who he's with and get some ransom?"

The guards parted, allowing the grimy woman through. Gunners differed from Minutemen and Raiders in that as they went up in rank they were awarded better gear befitting their skill and station. Minutemen Regulars received standard equipment, while Raiders either stole from each other or dealt with what they could scavenge. Judging from her full plates and the modern combat helmet hanging off her belt, this Sergeant must have been a capable fighter. The letter **B-** was tattooed onto her face, and she wore commando stripes under each eye. She shoved past, looming over Shaun's limp form as she stared down menacingly, her gaze narrowed.

"Get up. You're not fooling anyone."

Shaun slowly lifted his head, glancing up sheepishly (behind the Sergeant, the two guards looked at each other in bemusement) as he sat up, adjusting his hat. He couldn't meet the eye of such a fearsome woman. Compared to Colonel Shaw, Cait and several of the other female Minutemen he'd met, she had all the fire mixed in with triple the vinegar and spite. He was afraid of her, yes, but these Gunners just reeked of grease and callousness. They couldn't be trusted, and they didn't see others as people. He wasn't going to let them see him beg, if he could help it.

The Sergeant loomed over him, reaching out with a grubby hand and grabbing the brim of Shaun's cap, twisting viciously. Suddenly that internal promise didn't seem so realistic, more like a kid trying to play the tough guy card. Even Nat was made of sterner stuff than him, and she lived in Diamond City…

The Sergeant froze as she saw Shaun's face. Then she leaned down, grabbed Shaun's chin and turned his head, looking at him from multiple angles.

"Ah, shit…" she let him go and stepped back, pointing at Shaun with the cap. "He look like anyone to you morons?"

The guards stared down at Shaun for a minute before both simply shrugged, shaking their heads. Before they could ask, the Sergeant was smacking one over the head with the ballcap, punching the other in the jaw.

"HE'S. THE. GENERAL'S. KID. YOU. FUCKTARDS!" she hollered, enunciating her words with blows, bludgeoning her subordinates for their mistake. "Did you stop to wonder **who** just happens to wander around out here? Fuck's sake, if he was any other Minuteman's kid I'd **still** be freaking out, but you had to grab the **General's** son you idiots!" She tossed Shaun's cap back at him at this point, following it up with a grubby finger jabbing his way as she continued to bawl her men out. "I don't care how far away you gotta go, or if you find a goddamn Behemoth out there, you take him back where you found him and you **leave** him there!"

"Shit Sarge, we didn't know he was Grayson's boy! Fuck, we'll take him back."

"Do it now, you idiot! If Grayson even catches a whiff of this boy being here, he'll-"

Shaun didn't learn what the Gunners feared the General would do to them, as from within the building a muffled cry rang out, followed by the crack of a single laser shot and a distant gunshot, large caliber. The room went silent, everyone staring at the door. The air was completely still, the only noise being the crackle of the fire and the occasional creak of the building's rusted walls. Shaun slowly stood, peering over the counter. The other Gunners were slowly rising, picking up their weapons as they did so. There were more of them than he'd thought, and they were far better equipped than the two idiots left guarding him. Laser rifles, 9mm SMGs, shotguns and an LMG. Everyone wore armor of varying coverage, and he spotted more than a few grenades. Even among these hardened savage killers, the fear in the air was both sudden and palpable.

The Sergeant drew her sidearm, gesturing to a soldier nearby. The merc nodded, crossing the room and tapping a buddy on the shoulder. The two crossed to the door, followed by a third. They waited, glancing at each other before the third man pulled on the handle, yanking the door wide open to let the other two rush out, weapons up.

Which was when the two charges of C4 attached to the outside of the door went off, reducing the two Gunners in the hallway to a fine red mist, knocking the third one to the floor.

Up above, the sound of glass shattering on the second floor had several mercs turn and glance up, but four small objects clattered to the ground. Shaun's eyes widened, and he ducked just in time. One of the Gunners had a second to scream "GRENA-"

Two of them were frags, of course. But the other two were flashbangs. The bouquet detonated spectacularly in a cacophony of blasts, bangs and bright flashes. Shaun had remembered to look away, but the percussion deafened him, and all he heard was a loud ringing in his ears. It felt like his skull had just been grabbed and shaken up. He staggered back to his feet in time to see Dogmeat lunge through the open door, tackling a Gunner and going straight for the throat. To Shaun, the man died silently in a spray of blood as he struggled against the massive dog to no avail, his throat shredded by vicious fangs. And then the Dog was on another Gunner, taking her down to the floor.

The General came in at that instant. The window on the second floor that had been broken by the grenades was smashed inward as three-hundred pounds of man, armor and weapons tore through like resistance was just a suggestion, and from the second floor he turned his shotgun on the mercs below. The AA-25 combat shotgun normally operates on semi-automatic, for ammunition conservation. But the AA-25A1 model was fitted with an automatic fire mode as well, for urban combat situations where combatants were facing superior numbers. The General had taken a base model weapon and swapped out the receiver.

The resulting hailstorm of buckshot was astounding as it filled the air. A thirty-two round drum magazine was emptied in the course of about four seconds, though to Shaun it extended on for hours. Men were ripped to shreds, and in the poor light the muzzle flashes acted like cameras, illuminating individual moments as still frames that burned into the boy's eyes. Blood sprayed, flesh was torn away in chunks, armor dented under punishment, cloth ripped away with skin as both were torn away. The General walked his fire back and forth from target to target, gunning down those who survived with impunity. One drum mag turned into two, and the cycle repeated until the gun ran dry. But some Gunners, including the Sergeant and Shaun's two guards, were still alive, and they were recovering from the assault on their senses.

So the General leapt over the rail to join Dogmeat on the floor.

He landed on top of one merc, boots driving the man down into the floor, undoubtedly breaking bones. The Gunner yelled in pain a second before a massive fist wrapped in black smashed down, rebounding his skull off the floor. Another Gunner swept up from the side, yelling and swinging his rifle to buttstroke the man in blue, but a bull barrel lifted into his eyes and with a report that shot into Shaun's very soul took off half of the man's skull.

Dogmeat leapt at another, his muzzle and front drenched in blood and gore. This merc struggled against the German Shepherd, managing to hold him off but his arm still in the hound's teeth. The General merely stood, cocking the revolver again and blowing the man's throat out. The Gunner fell. As the tall man turned, Shaun got a look at his father's face. Or, at least, at the gas mask he wore. This was the man Shaun had feared. Those who had seen Grayson in combat swore the man was little more than a machine, killing and moving and killing over and over again with engineered precision. Few knew he'd been a decorated Army veteran before the bombs dropped. Those who did suddenly had an explanation. For Shaun, he'd had the explanation before seeing the source. Now he was witnessing the source for himself. And it was absolutely horrifying.

Another Gunner rushed the General from the side, a Ripper in hand as he screamed on approach. In response, the General ducked under the first blow, then reached out and grabbed the man's wrist, twisting savagely and slamming his revolver into the Gunner's face. As the merc stumbled, Grayson pulled the limb into an armbar before striking straight down on the joint. The arm snapped, jagged white bone tearing through skin in a spray of red. The merc screamed in agony before the revolver snapped up again, and another shot at point-blank range took off everything above the man's nose.

Abruptly, return fire range out, and Shaun saw several rounds spark as they struck into the General's chestplate and shoulderpad. Grayson stumbled a half step before turning, spotting one of Shaun's guard stepping out, racking his shotgun as he approached. In a heartbeat, a hand flashed up and drew the Assaultron sword from the sheath on his back, thumbing the power button and lunging forward. There was a flash of electric light in the dim room, and the merc's head popped off, the rest of his body attempting to finish its last instruction and finish the last step before collapsing.

The Sergeant let off a burst of fire as she approached, and more shots glanced off the General's armor. Some of them found purchase, burying into flesh in a spray of blood as Grayson staggered. He recovered in an instant, and was across the room in a moment, swinging his sword in a brutal chop that tore into the Sergeant's weapon, knocking it away after wrecking the barrel and frame. But the Sergeant lunged back, punching low in the gut before striking across the jaw. Or attempting to, at least. If he was affected by the blows at all, the General didn't show it, as he clotheslined her, slamming the merc to the floor and burying his sword into her gut.

The last of Shaun's guards lunged in, knife in hand as he struck downwards. With no time to extract the sword, Grayson stood, bringing his wrist up and blocking the first blow, grabbing the goon by his belt and lifting him up off his feet, slamming the Gunner back down to earth. The merc struggled to stand, but screamed as Dogmeat lunged in from the side.

Shaun couldn't help himself. At this point, he let out a small gasp, barely audible in the chaos, but the air was suddenly so still after the carnage that he must have been louder than he'd imagined. Because in spite of undoubtedly being deafened and his blood being up, the General heard. He spun, revolver drawn and halfway up before he paused, realizing who he was about to target next. He faltered, and in that moment Shaun could see Grayson's eyes. For a second, the General had faded away, and his father was back again.

"Shaun!" he called.

And then the first Gunner Grayson had taken down was on his back, burying a combat knife straight down, in the soft spot between breastplate and shoulderpad.

Grayson fell, struggling as he tried to unseat his assailant. The merc's bloodied scalp told of a serious head injury, but someone he was pushing on, giggling his insane fool head off as he put more force into the blade, trying to force it past Grayson's collarbone and find his heart or lung. Caught in this position, with a knee in his back pinning him to the floor, Shaun's dad was having trouble fending off the attack. Dogmeat lunged in howling, but was swift boot delivered to the canine's jaw put an end to that plan for at least a moment, and the Gunner doubled down on trying his best to kill the General, shouting his head off.

"Fuck you bitch! Imma kill you right here and now! And then I'll kill your dog, your goddamn brat! Then we're gonna go burn down you're fucking Castle!"

The man was clearly deranged, but his intent (and apparent ability to follow through) were clear, and he punched Grayson in the back of the head, knocking away the hat as he pushed even harder. He was going to kill him, Shaun had to **do** something. Anything. But what?

He glanced to the side, and suddenly had his answer.

The Gunner shoved again, trying his hardest to bury the knife into the General's clavicle. But all that armor was getting in the way, and Grayson's thrashing was making it tough to get enough force behind the blow. The General bucked again, throwing a wild punch, but it just bounced off the Gunner's thigh. He giggled, his head swimming. But he didn't care. Even if he died right here, right now, he'd still be known as the man who finally defeated the General of the Minutemen. Fuck anyone who came after him, **no one** would get a glory like that.

"Hey!" The goon looked up to spot the brat they'd captured earlier, just a few feet away, raising the .44 magnum revolver in both hands. "Get off my dad!"

The shot wasn't anything fancy. Shaun wasn't trying to get anything over the top, flashy or amazing. Just one round, center of mass, like he'd been trained. But at that range, even power armor wouldn't have been much help. The round tore through the Gunner's plate, just above the painted skull. The entry hole was the size of a man's thumb. The exit wound was the size of a melon.

As the man fell, silence returned. Shaun let the weapon drop, panting heavily as if he'd just been out running again. He felt empty inside, staring at the man he'd just shot point blank range. His legs were suddenly weak, and he fell to his knees as exhaustion settled over him. He let the revolver go, his head spinning. He'd taken another man's life. Just like that. Raise the gun, pull the trigger. He'd only meant to threaten him. Make him move. But the second Shaun had his attention, he'd pulled the trigger on reflex. Then he'd watched the merc's life leave his eyes as he fell, now just a husk of meat.

Just as he felt like he'd fall over, Shaun felt a hand wrap around his shoulder, and he leaned against something solid. He glanced up, watching as his father tugged the gas mask off. That was him, for sure. His father. His dad. The scarred man looked down with panic, concern, sadness and, of all things, relief in his eyes.

"Shaun," he said quietly. "Are you okay?"

"You came for me," Shaun said quietly, to which Grayson froze. "You got me back. Again."

A pause. Shaun had only known this man a few weeks, compared to the ten years they'd been separated. For all intents, they were complete strangers. He no more knew this man was really his father than the old man named Father had been. There was a whole lifetime of absence in their way. But then Grayson leaned in, wrapping his other arm around Shaun in a tight hug.

"The last time I lost you, I didn't get you back for ten years. That's **never** going to happen again."

And as Shaun leaned into it, he believed it. He hugged his dad back, and Dogmeat stepped over, nosing in to start sniffing and licking Shaun's neck, just as concerned. The three of them stayed like that for a few minutes, amongst the piles of corpses and sea of blood, just the crackle of fire to fill the air.

Then, his dad stood, setting Shaun onto his feet. He scooped up his revolver, holstering it before checking his son up and down. Once he'd ascertained they were all okay, he retrieved his sword and shotgun, finding Shaun's rifle stashed nearby. He handed it back, and Shaun worked the bolt, chambering a fresh round.

"C'mon, let's see if anything's left of your radstag. We'll make camp, then head for home in the morning."

* * *

(Parting Shot: here we are, at the end of the actual prologue! From here on, the story will split into stories such as 'the Great Hunt' and 'the 2nd CPG' Occasionally, we'll look into 'Railroaded', 'Shattered Steel' and other such stories. Just remember, Cold Comfort Commonwealth is a constantly evolving world in progress. Unlike in the game, things are vastly more interconnected here. The lack of player choice in Fallout 4 really did bug me a little, but the power to change things in print like I think they naturally would or should is a gift, and I thank you all for your valuable reviews and opinions.

We'll return to the story in a shorter amount of time if I can, but in the meantime, let's read some reviews!

 **The Titan's Shadow:** thanks for the feedback, would love to hear more of your thoughts!

 **Paladin Bailey:** given the fact that a lot of information we know about previous Fallout topics has been rendered noncanon (Fallout Tactics and Brotherhood, for example and the Fallout Bible has been called into question recently) that leaves quite a few holes open where once true facts were stored. Now, we're never going to be able to get those previous facts out of our heads, so I choose to let myself be influenced by said entries. I always wondered why the Enclave kept getting beaten...as for Alaska, that's a little out of the way, but a peek up there might be interesting. And for Ronto...well...I reserve the author's right to tease his audience.

 **MASTER-OF-SUPRISE:** thank you so much for taking the time to leave reviews for -every- chapter, it means the world to me! As for other topics...I've never written romantic conflict before. Oh, sure I've written romance and someone leaving for someone else, but I always considered the idea of multiple potentials arguing over a lover to simply be a teenager's fantasy. Until recently, that is, when I found myself having a tough time choosing between Piper, Cait and Curie. I had really wished they had more interaction, as it might have made the potential situation more interesting, but my friend then suggested letting it play out. Hence, my first love triangle. Er...square. As for Acadia, DiMA's passing always kind of left that question open to me personally. Who takes charge after he's gone? Did the colony really lose anything with his death? How much was he actually running? Fortunately, there's speculative fiction like this.

Like always people, leave a review, ask a question, make a suggestion, I'm open to it all! And we'll see you guys next time, on Cold Comfort Commonwealth!)


	5. Intermission I: To End All Wars I

(Author's Note: okay, you all may have noticed I've been away for a while, and I must apologize for that. My computer decided it no longer wanted to work, so I have been attempting to write from my phone. It's taken longer than I expected; so I punched you all up a short interim chapter to let you guys know I'm alive and keep CCC going!

Also, personal achievement: CCC has hit over 700 hits! I'm actually getting out there, boys and girls!

Now enjoy the fic!)

* * *

 **Pip-Boy Date 6.14.2288**

 **Valentine Detective Agency**

Nick Valentine had always been a loud thinker. Back in his 'flesh and blood' days before the Great War, he'd ponder a case out loud, going through the steps and clues and piecing them together. It helped him catch things others misses, when he said them aloud, and of he didn't others would. This habit was largely useless after he woke up a synth, since his computerized processors that constituted his brain worked almost instantly, but it comforted him, helped him keep hold of his identity. As such, when Ellie heard him talking out loud she largely kept to her own work, mindful to at least keep an ear out if he asked for her help, fingers clicking away at her typewriter as she wrote up case files and reports. Lately, they'd had a flood of cases concerning missing people who might have been taken by the Institute after all. A renewed sense of hope had surged across the Commonwealth after the reactor detonation and General Grayson's announcement, and ever since then Nick had been swamped with requests to renew the search, people desperate for some shred of closure or a lead on a survivor. For the majority, these ended in sorrow. Some people, hopping on the fear of surviving doubles that was ignited in the wake of McDonough's death, had requested he investigate their neighbors or other 'suspicious' characters. These cases Nick turned down flat. That was a can of worms he refused to open.

Besides, he had his own ghosts to wrestle with.

"I know you're there," he muttered, attempting to write while he ignored the individal lounging in the chair in front of his desk.

"I'm always here Nick," the man responded, his arrogant smirk telling of just how much he was enjoying this. "There's nowhere else for me to be. Believe me, if I had the choice, I'd rather not stay cooped up in this rusty old place."

"I like to think my office has rustic charm," Nick bit back, still staring at the paperwork he really needed to get done.

"I was talking about your head, seeing how I'm stuck in its circuits," the digital specter of Conrad Kellogg quipped. "You think I like having a roommate? This isn't exactly ideal you know."

Now that Nick thought about it, maybe Kellogg's smirk was more of a restrained grimace. Hard to tell sometimes, given that he was a mental projection. Technically, Kellogg wasn't speaking either, definitely not out loud. This entire dialogue was entirely internal, though thanks to Nick's little habit he was unable to keep his half of the chat purely inside. The curse of being a 'flawed' Gen 2.

"It's **my** head, Kellogg. You're not a roommate, you're more like a couch crasher I can't send away. About as annoying too."

"That's rich, coming from the man who killed me. Eh, the machine that is. The man, I'll take care of later. But I'll be happy to start with you."

Nick didn't rise to the bait. This wasn't the first time the dead old merc had sworn revenge on him and Grayson. Hell, the first time Kellogg had awoken in his digital state, he'd raged up and down the wall, battling for control of Nick's mind. Valentine had fought back, and barely won. Since then, he'd tried to remove the unwelcome entity from his hard drive, but too late. Kellogg had found a nice little firewall to dig in behind, and like a tick he'd borrowed hard under layers of code. Nick couldn't get rid of him, and he couldn't overpower the Institute programming. So instead they had these bitter internal debates, which always went about the same way.

Nick fixed 'Kellogg' (his mental projection at least) his best flat death stare, laying his pen down at last as he narrowed his eyes.

"You're a little tied up in here, ain't you?"

Kellogg merely smiled, cruelly. Like a deathclaw eying up a nice, plump brahmin that had been so cute as to snort and lower it's horns at the predator.

"For now, Tin Man. But I've gotten out of worse."

"You okay, Nick?"

Sharply, Nick snapped his eyes up at Ellie, who was standing before his desk, a concerned look on her face. When Nick looked back, the dead mercenary was gone.

"Just...fine, Ellie. Only a few ghosts in the machine."

"Come again?"

* * *

 **University Point**

This place was a ghost town. Though once populated and prosperous, after University Point was wiped out by the Institute, no one had wanted to come back. The place felt almost cursed, and mirelurks were rampant.

Synths had held the town for some time until the Minutemen had reclaimed it as part of their formation of the South Boston Military Zone. While the mirelurks were an issue, the stigma attached to the settlement, especially so close to the must safer Vault 88, dissuaded anyone from trying to resettle the place, leading to it mostly still being abandoned. As part of the effort to contain the Gunners in Quincy, occasionally occupying it as an outpost. But even these were just temporary residents.

Today, the town was once more playing host to a Minuteman force. Out in the streets, Captain Thomas Holland (normally the commander of Minuteman East) struggled to light a cigarette, the match refusing to strike against the flint strip he'd taped to his rifle's stock.

"God dammit," he cursed as the match broke, and he glanced around in frustration looking for someone to borrow a new one or even a lighter from. The main plaza of University Point was garrison Ed by several squads, all wearing the green patches of the East garrison. Ever since Croup Manor had been destroyed, the men and women of East had been scattered across the Boston Common, though they had received plenty of backup from the Castle to keep up the fight. Since then they had fought a ranging battle against various Raiders, Gunners and the Super Mutants, all without their own base to work from and no Colonel to lead them. After the strike against Boston Airport, the temporary buildup in Country Crossing became far more permanent, resulting in the old National Guard armory being labeled the new East command post.

All of which still begged the question of why East, not South, was pulling security here. Minuteman North out of Starlight was busy policing the Frontier and defending Diamond City, but East was supposed to be rebuilding right now. Still, the General had asked for Holland and fifty of his best handpicked, and as such here they were, setting up Browning Mk. 22s and sniper nests to guard the empty town. For the most part, they kept to their duty, walking the walls and lanes of the Point with fingers on triggers. Most still griped about the bullshit assignment however, as was the God given right of servicemen under stress. No one liked being sent to this dead place, and many admitted how much it got under their skin. There was something unnatural about this place, so empty and quiet. Past its walls, the echoing of gunfire across the Commonwealth could always be heard, especially so close to Gunner Quincy, but here even that constant backdrop was gone, leaving just the crash of the shore and the moaning of cold wind. Even through summer, the worldwide nuclear winter was only just beginning to recede. Here in University Point, the chill, stillness and creepy sounds led to the entire town feeling haunted by the dead. Morning fog didn't help.

Abruptly, a hand reached in front of him, battered silver lighter in hand as the flint striker clicked, orange flame springing into being. Holland grunted a thanks as he leaned closer, letting the smoke light before he leaned back, taking a drag and letting the smoke drift up and out.

"Thanks Sarge," he said, and Staff Sergeant Allison Murphy nodded as she put her lighter away. In the wake of the war with the Brotherhood, East's command echelon had been gutted, and most of Holland's lieutenants were field promoted NCOs. Experienced sergeants like Murphy were the real power holding Minutemen East together, and Holland wanted his best under these circumstances.

Up in the wall, one of the gun crews stiffened, turning towards the yard and calling "Vertibird, coming in from the west!"

Immediately, the Minutemen jumped into action, checking rifles and taking up positions behind sandbags. The single Enforcer they had picked up the massive Incinerator he'd brought, checking the fuel tank on the fireball launcher as his T-51 hissed and whirred.

Holland snapped off an order to his radio man, then stepped over to a nearby shop, upon which sat the most ambitious defense they'd established. On its roof, four Mk. 22s were mounted on a rack with a chair, making a very effective anti-infantry, anti-virus, anti-monster...well, technically the turret was a good anti-everything defense. He clapped the operator on the shoulder.

"Okay, Lassiter. Get her ready to rock."

Lassiter in response tugged her ear protection in place, the two loaders taking up position on either side. The thunder of four such massive guns meant the normally scarcely used hearing muffs were handed out with insistence this time. The turret had only just been scratch built today, an experiment by the ever evolving Minutemen engineers, trying out new ways to turn wasteland trash into useful devices. Here, they'd resurrected an old design to fight back, and these kinds of Quad turrets had shot down several Vertibirds during the Battle of Boston Commons.

For a second, quiet returned, as all that could be heard was the muttering of Minutemen in their fighting positions, the hum of the turret's electric motor and the distant sound of chopper blades, getting ever closer.

The Gunner Vertibird, once it could be seen, was an ugly bird. Obviously a hijacked Brotherhood craft, her sides had Gunner skulls where a US Army sigil had once been, years ago. Her paint was dark green, but black war paint had been applied. Ribbons of painted bullets formed teeth around a crudely made mouth, with fearsome eyes designed to make the craft look like some kind of flying predator. It was a far cry from the far more professional look of Minuteman blue or Brotherhood black, and Holland hated it as soon as he saw it.

He grimaced, but still stepped down, crossing the open yard to tug a flare from his belt, striking the end and waving it over his head, moving to the arranged LZ to try and get the pilot's attention. Who knew how much training Gunner aviators got?

This one seemed a bit capable, at least. He came in, deploying the landing struts and settling more or less in the center of the yard, though he accidentally pulled a few feet forward before powering the engines down correctly.

Holland's radioman, the bulky radio pack weighing him down, stepped back over, receiver to his ear as he yelled over the engines "The General's ready inside, sir! He wants you to escorts the VIPs in!"

"Fucking wonderful," Holland muttered, a hand trying to keep his hat from flying off in the rotorwash. The radioman looked confused, but Holland sent him away with an affirmative before turning back, stepping towards the pillaged aircraft once it was safe to do so.

The side door was only just sliding open, and from out of it came two figures. One, tall and wire-thin with a mohawk and grimy war paint, was Captain Wes, commander of Gunners Plaza. It was from him that most of the orders across the Commonwealth stemmed, and Holland felt himself sneer as he watched the mercenary commander. Rarely sighted, this was the first time any Minuteman had seen him.

Next was Sergeant Baker. Him everyone knew. A verified marksman with heavy weapons, he had splashed plenty of targets from the safety of Quincy with mortar, missile launcher and even a Fat Man. He looked fairly uncomfortable, clad in heavy green armor and a fur hat, hand on his sidearm as he stepped down next to Wes.

The two approached Holland, who glanced back and forth between the two, taking another pull on his cigarette.

"Wasn't there supposed to be someone else with you?"

Wes merely jerked his chin towards Sedgwick Hall, his eyes glancing around at the large array of Minuteman security on display here.

"Just get going little man."

Holland snorted, spitting in the dirt before he turned, tilting his head towards the hall before leading on, while dozens of guns were trained on the two Gunners. The main door was guarded by a pair of Minutemen Veterans, these two being ex-raiders who had sensed a shift in the winds and jumped on the winning side. True they were no longer allowed to loot or torture, and their sentence to atone for their crimes was technically life service, but given that they were better off than their former boss Tower Tom (now deceased), it was worth the payoff. One of them, a bruiser wearing a gas mask to cover up his gang tats, merely grunted as the three approached. The other opened the door, snarling behind his eye patch.

Sedgwick Hall was falling apart, sinking into the sea. Many places near the water were just like it, but Sedgwick was suffering from it worse than most. The Mirelurks were manageable, but the sinking hall wasn't worth the price of keeping them contained. As such, the main room was as far as the trio went. In here, several of Holland's best stood around a table, hands on weapons ad watching closely. They were mostly carrying M199s scavenged from the Training Yard, the last iteration of the venerable AR-15 line in the Pre-war Era. Word was, millions of these weapons could be found across the ruins of America, though their brittle plastic parts made them unreliable for the most part. Until they were replaced with new Minuteman R91s, East would have to make do with the older weapons.

Near the center of the room sat a simple, unassuming table. There was nothing special about this table, merely a holotape recorder and a map of the Commonwealth laid on the surface. But there was a single empty chair, on the side of the main door.

Sitting in the other chair was General Grayson's himself.

He'd removed his officers' cap and gloves, dressed in the classic uniform of the General of the Minutemen. Next to him stood none other than Preston Garvey, hands clenched into fists, his new blue officers' colonial duster practically spotless. Neither man was visibly armed, but Holland spotted holsters on both of them.

The room was silent for a full minute, both sides eying each other up. Outnumbered badly, the Gunners shifted uneasily, though Wes eyed up Grayson with something akin to disgust.

The scarred General nodded to Holland.

"Thank you Captain. If you'd like, you can stay until our guests leave."

Holland nodded back, stepping to the side and leaning against the wall, setting his rifle down as he cherished the last of his smoke. Grayson gestured to the chair in front of him.

"Take a seat, please."

As if still sensing a trap, Wes and Baker stepped closer. Baker took up position next to the table, staring Garvey straight in the eye. Garvey stared back, his gaze full of cool and cold murder. Wes sat down, placing his briefcase cautiously on the table. Grayson looked him up and down, frowning as he did so.

"Okay, I'm a little confused. Cypress said he was coming with you and Clint."

"Change in plans," Wes replied. "Business came up. So Baker came instead."

"And Cypress?"

"Easy now. The Colonel is not one to just hand things off to someone if he doesn't feel like it."

Wes smirked before he released the clasps on the briefcase, turning it around and opening the lid. Inside, a small TV screen buzzed to life, wonderfully compact and in black and white. It showed the classic 'PLEASE STANDBY' screen seen in so many televisions. But when Wes pressed a button, the image changed to that of the inside of some sort of vehicle. Steel walls and a noticeable radio rack filled the background, with a status light in the top left. Taking center of the shot was a man in a US Army officer's dress coat, with no ornamentation. He was leaned back slightly, and his hair and mustache were perfectly trimmed to a military standard of a bygone age. His face was perfectly composed, and he stared at his own screen with no deviation in focus.

The officer shifted.

"General Grayson, I presume? And Colonel Garvey unless I miss my guess. My apologies for not attending personally. But you can never be too careful in this time, and I was called away on another matter."

"Colonel Cypress," Grayson returned with a nod. Garvey said nothing. "A pleasure."

"Spare me the niceties, son. Now let's get down to business. You wanted to negotiate."

"I do, Colonel," Grayson replied coolly. "The conflict between the Gunners and the Minutemen has reached a zenith. Neither of us is gaining anything by clashing with each other like this. We're more interested in reconstruction right now. As such, I'm willing to offer you the former Raider base of Libertalia and several former Brotherhood Vertibirds in exchange for the town of Quincy and an agreement that the Gunners will cease attacks on settlements and civilians under Minuteman protection."

Cypress' smirk did not disappear, but he did chuckle and shake his head.

"You are bold, I'll give you that. I do like your guts. Sadly, i thought you might be reasonable about all this. It seems I was wrong."

"So that's a 'no' then?" Grayson asked, an eyebrow arched. Garvey narrowed his eyes slightly, still fixed on Baker.

"Hard 'no' General. I have no reason to trade away anything. I am on the high ground, you are struggling in the shallows. I have fortified positions all over the Commonwealth, my stores of arms are growing stronger by the day, and now that you have so kindly removed both the Institute and the Brotherhood, I have no reason to fear expanding. Who is going to stop me? You? Diamond City Security? Time is on my side and I am a very patient man."

For a moment, Grayson merely watched the screen carefully, one bare finger tapping at the table's surface. Cypress, nonplussed, merely waited as he watched for the General's reaction, smug smirk still affixed. Wes and Baker, however, weren't so sure this was over with, and the former kept glancing between Grayson and Garvey, growing more concerned by the second.

"Corporal Rogers," Grayson abruptly said. "Get me a radio, please."

Behind him, the Minuteman in question turned, rummaging through the equipment they had stored here. He came back with a portable radio set a moment later, setting the piece down in front of the General, who pushed the set over to Baker, staring him down.

"You're going to want to call Quincy in a moment."

Baker, confused, asked "Uh...why?"

"Because it's about to come under attack, and I figure you trying to get through will only add to the chaos."

For a moment, the Gunners just stared back, even Cypress looking taken aback. Then, Wes stood, a finger leveled at Grayson.

"Bullshit! You got nothing! No buildup, no staging area, nothing! "

"Cypress, if you can't keep your subordinate quiet, my men will remove him."

With a menacing clack of a charging action, Wes felt a muzzle placed at the back of his head, and had no inclination to turn around.

"General," Cypress began. "I have no interest in useless bluster and mind games. This changes nothing. Our men in Quincy are dug in and ready for any attack."

"Well yes," Grayson replied. "And since Clint was supposed to be here, I expected a much more sturdy defense. Fortunately, your Lieutenant is a chickenshit coward, so this actually ought to be much easier than we anticipated."

Baker slowly reached forward, picking up the radio hardest and adjusting frequencies, his fingers shaking. Once he had dialed into the Quincy open channel, he pressed the call button.

"This is Baker, calling Quincy Actual. Are you there, Clint?"

Abruptly, a distant boom sang out, muffled by the walls. Then another. And another. On its heels, the clatter of choppers soared overhead, multiple units moving fast north to south, cutting straight over University Point.

The radio chartered with frantic static.

Baker glanced over at Wes in horror.

"Tessa…". He too had a rifle pressed to his head. The other Minutemen advanced, racking their own weapons, safeties off. Cypress glared at Grayson.

"You're bluffing. There is -no- attack."

"You know what the beautiful thing about an underground settlement is, Colonel?" Grayson asked as he reached over, unfolding the map and studying it intensely. "The tunnels, sewers and rail lines go -everywhere.-"

"Vault 88…" Wes whispered.

"Not only that, but Baker being here means far more Vertibirds survive. Quincy isn't very well defended against air attacks."

"Dammit Clint," Baker swore.

"Not to mention you boys really need to stop antagonize get the Atom Cats. They were more than happy to shelter our armored units." Grayson folded up the map, sighing as he pushed it away. "Not to mention current tactics fail to take boats and overland vehicles into effect."

"You have no such vehicles!" Cypress snarled.

"You know how fast an LNH-1201 Humvee goes, Colonel?" Grayson asked rhetorically. "Fast enough to cross Boston and rough country in a few minutes. And they're notoriously rugged. Gotta love military equipment and how easy it is to fix up six or seven of them. Each hauler varient holds maybe eight men who can dismount and a machine gunner."

There was, after all, a reason why security for this meet was sent from Minutemen East while Captain Sanders mustered the entire Castle QRF and Air Corps without comprising the Castle garrison.

Baker pressed the call button again.

"Baker to Quincy Actual, Clint you stupid son of a bitch, pick up!"

" _Baker, what the hell do you want? I'm a little busy here!"_

"Fuck's sake...what's going on there?"

" _What's going on is that it's raining Minutemen!"_ Clinton voice yelled back. " _Jesus Christ, they're everywhere!"_

"Did I also forget to mention that there a lot's of Gunners who really hate their jobs and aren't so eager to get killed anymore?"

Cypress grit his teeth, leaning forward as he hissed "We're not finished here. I -will- find you, and I will -destroy- you, General. You will never know peace, and I swear i will-"

Whatever else the Colonel swore would remain a mystery, as the General calmly drew his revolver and put a round straight through the screen. The.44 magnum round punched straight through the compact computer, barely missing Wes and blasting the rotten wood of the wall behind him. The two Gunners flinched, startled, as the Minutemen moved in, surrounding them with a forest of rifle barrels.

"A bit dramatic, if I say so sir," Holland quipped as he struggled to light another cigarette.

"Maybe," Grayson replied, wincing. "But I'm starting to see why my wife hated comic book villains so much."

* * *

 **Bedford Station**

Colonel Cypress leaned back, stating at the screen. The letters 'SIGNAL LOST' blared back at him in green, taunting him.

How curious. Colonel Avery Cypress always prided himself on not only being a man of even temper, but a good judge of character. Clearly, he had judged poorly with Lieutenant Clint. He'd have to do an inspection of his surviving officers, to prevent this sort of incompetence from happening again.

Cypress stood, considering his options. Given what had just happened, the current operation was definitely no longer viable. He needed to reconsolidate, fortify his remaining strongholds, get a new officer at Gunners Plaza. If the Minutemen were on the march and defectors from his own ranks saw refuge in Commonwealth arms, he needed to accelerate his timetable. They needed something to swing the odds. Now.

He stepped out of his command variant Marshall IFV, out into the sun of the train station. Around him, dozens of Gunners, armed to the teeth and preparing for a monumental raid on Station Olivia, were staring south as the sounds of heavy combat drifted north. The booms of artillery fire, whine of lasers and chatter of automatic fire was so heavy it could be heard echoing over the hills.

He stepped over to Commander Kaylor, who was one of the few not looking south as she studied a map. Not of the current area, but of a region further west from here. She sat with her men around a fire, where they'd been preparing for the mission by roasting a radstag flank, strapping on armor and wiping down laser rifles. None of them even glanced up as Cypress stood next to their Commander.

"Well," Cypress started. "Are you happy?"

"Never," Kaylor replied, taking a gulp of her coffee. "But I am a little better. Quincy gone?"

"If not, it will before anyone gets there. Wes and Baker are most assuredly captured, perhaps dead. And we've lost almost all of our eastern presence. I need to pull back over the river."

Kaylor glanced up, fixing Cypress with a meaningful glare.

"I told you he wouldn't stop until Quincy was crushed. And I also told you Clint would be an idiot."

"I thought it wasn't going to make you happy?"

Kaylor didn't deign to reply to that particular comment, merely looked back at her map of Nuka-World, studying it carefully. Cypress sighed, scratching his chin.

"You're certain you can find it?"

"The radio signal only started a few days ago. She's got to have either run into trouble or found something interesting. Either one is a good sign."

"Okay," Cypress replied, crossing his arms. "I'm approving the mission. But you hold that station until u get you some backup, understand? Everything's going to be a goddamn mess now."

"Won't be a problem, sir." Kaylor glanced over her shoulder, to the north, but Cypress waved.

"Those Institute rats can wait. Hell the longer we give them, the more likely they'll have rebuilt something actually work that taking." Cypress grunted. "You'll want to get going as soon as you can. I need to call New York about this."

"Enclave's not gonna be happy," Kaylor replied, folding up her map again.

"Those assholes never are," Cypress grumbled, turning back and practically dragging his feet on the way back to his vehicle.

* * *

 **Quincy**

The town had always been at risk of being raided, and as a result the town had always been well defended. The town had several narrow streets that fed in a wagon wheel to a single square in the center of town. The buildings, multi storied and well built, could harry invaders all the way in, where they would then be annihilated.

Unfortunately, with artillery shells falling in a creeping barrage across town, Minuteman assault teams landing from Vertibirds to take the rooftops and the sudden appearance of several squads carrying flamers and grenade launchers in their midst meant the Gunner defenders were in disarray when the Hummers smashed into the north, amphibious assault squads from the south and Enforcers with Atom Cats from the east.

Quincy began crumbling like a paper bag under this lightning assault.

Lieutenant Clint was hurriedly trying to get his T-51b armor going, cursing as he finally plugged the fusion core in, listening to the system boot up as he frantically climbed into the frame. Everything was going to shit, and that dumbass Baker wasn't here. Down below, Tessa was trying to get the defense put together, but the moment the Hummers smashed through the gates (and where the hell had those fucks come from?) the streets practically belonged to the Minutemen. He could hear the thumping of heavy machine guns as weapons America had almost forgotten tore unto the Gunners ranks. Dismounted Minutemen swarmed the surrounding buildings with shotguns and SMGS. From here, Clint could see entire rooms blasting out the windows. The Gunners were still putting up stiff resistance, and lasers strobes down into the streets, more than one blue clothed figure falling under the red fire.

Finally clad, Clint grabbed up Good Intentions, leaping into action as he landed on top of the church. Perfect, he spotted his first target nearby, a Minuteman who had dropped from a Vertibird onto a rooftop nearby. He leveled his laser, squeezing off a few shots.

A single round, a near miss from the skirmish in the street below, arced up and smashed into Clint's cheekbone, erupting out the back of his skull.

As the dead hulk of his armor toppled over, a passing Minuteman Vertibird strafed the church with a flurry of rockets, blowing out the upper floor and annihilating the Gunners inside taking up positions.

No one was able to identify Clint's remains.

* * *

(Parting Shot: well, the secret is out! I'd have more clever quips for you, but given that it's 1 am here and I've had to type this whole thing up on my phone's tiny keyboard, frankly I'm just glad I got through. So let's address some reviews from loyal readers:

 **HOG2017** : five years in the US Army means it's no longer a choice, it's a lifestyle. And given that, I knew the General's Minutemen would be a lot more organized along those lines. Still, thanks for the feedback!

 **Paladin Bailey** : Ronto and the Canadian wasteland do have a significant part to play in this story, so don't worry about that, you'll be seeing them and a lot more of the American wasteland as we go on!

 **MASTER-OF-SUPRISE** : I've honestly got to say, seeing readers like you track on to the details so tightly and say the things you say always gives me motivation to keep on chugging. So thank you for coming back, and I hope you keep reading.

Keep an eye out for me, everyone! Progress is slow, but I still fight the good fight for you! CCC -will- continue, and nothing can stop that from happening!)


	6. Intermission I: To End All Wars II

( **Author's Note:** holy crap...over 1,000 hits you guys! I never imagined this story would become so popular as all that! Now, I tried to move on past this little interim piece, but I never really felt satisfied with how I left the last chapter, so this is the last segment of this interruption piece for you guys to tie up a few loose ends I still had stuck in my head.

So without further ado, let's get this story going! Don't forget guys, I am willing to answer any of your questions!)

* * *

It always ended with screams. And fire. So much fire and so many screams. It always took an order in his mind, too. Mary screamed after she pushed him out the window, the house consuming her as he watched, too stunned to move. The Chinese conscripts, soldiers like him, screamed as they charged through icy minefields, bullets flying all around. The screaming as he watched Boston get incinerated in nuclear fire. The screaming of his wife and son as Kellogg pulled the trigger, the deathclaw's roar as it charged him in Concord, the sharp burning tang of lasers burning the air as he slammed a broken rifle into Kellogg's head. Bunker Hill. Ticonderoga. Fort Strong. The Nucleus. The Castle. Fort Hagen's underground. Saugus. The Institute, the Boston Common.

The Prydwyn, falling from the sky. Had it all been so recent? Had he crawled out of the vault less than a year ago? It didn't seem possible. But the airship had burned, and the passengers on board had undoubtedly screamed.

The Castle again. Destroyed Vertibirds spiraled down, crashing into the surf, the Brotherhood soldiers on board forced to choose between drowning, burning alive or emerging into Minutemen guns.

Always fire. Always screaming. Always death.

He could hear the guns firing on Anchorage, calling his name with their songs of war.

Boom.

Boom.

Boom!

 **Pip-Boy Date 6.14.2288**

 **Quincy**

 _Bang!_

He flinched, suddenly, glancing over his shoulder. Outside, the drunken cheers of victory responded, and the occasional shot rang out. He huffed, reaching up and wiping the sweat from his face.

Grayson turned back, continuing to rummage through the rubble. It was a miracle the pharmacy and it's residence hadn't been badly damaged. Shaken definitely, and a large hole in the roof told that the building next door had thrown debris everywhere, but it didn't look too bad.

Ah, a spot of luck. He'd found what he'd been searching for.

"Thought ye'd given up on diggin' through ole crap, Boss," came Cait's voice from the door. She leaned in the door frame, an imposing mass of red-headed, freckled muscle. Cait had spearheaded the charge out of the tunnels, taking the fight to the Gunners from below. When Grayson had found her after the fighting, she'd been awkwardly wiping a prodigious amount of blood off her shoulders.

The General stood, chuckling at Cait's quip. "Old habits, I'm afraid," he said. "I thought you were off on a quest to find out who could get the most drunk with the Grenadiers?"

"Eh, big mouths, small guts as it turned out," she said dismissively. "Jus' four bottles in an' I'm the last one standin'. An' you're avoidin' me."

Grayson grunted as he turned, eying her up. He considered his next words carefully.

"I've kind of been avoiding everyone. It's lonely at the top, old saying goes."

"Bullshite," Cait challenged, standing eyeball to eyeball with Grayson. "Ever since ye picked yerself back up, ye been reachin' out to everyone. But I get back in, an' all I get is barely a nod."

"So that's your beef? I'm not showing you enough attention?"

"I dunno, Handsome. A girl likes to feel appreciated, so why don' you tell me?"

"Now who's avoiding who? You're usually a hell of a lot more direct than this, Cait."

She shrugged, silently acknowledging the point. "Someone's gotta call ye on yer shite. We can't all jus' grovel at yer feet an' worship ye."

The joke was on her, of course. They both knew what awaited Grayson the next day in Diamond City.

She stepped over, tugging a cigarette out and offering him another, which he graciously accepted, conjuring a lighter out of nowhere. For a time, they merely smoked together in silence, watching the clear skies out the shattered roof. The stars were obscured tonight by the town's lights, but every once in a while a glint in the distance broke through.

Finally, Cait spoke again.

"Heard yer havin' girl troubles. Way to go Stud."

Was that sarcasm in her tone? Grayson blew out another puff of smoke, grunting as he considered the question. Of all the things in his life, this topic ranked only just above going to Diamond City to butt heads with Codman in terms of how much he looked forward to it. And maybe the prospect of laying siege to Gunners Plaza.

"Everyone seems to be talking about it," he finally replied. "I have no goddamn idea where it all came from, though. Curie just...just kissed me in front of everyone. And now I learn that Piper is…I dunno, lurking seems to fit pretty well. Lurking in the background with the same thing."

"Piper?". Cait was only taken aback for a moment, thinking back to all the times she'd alluded to threesomes and the reporter's curt, embarrassed, jealousy ridden response. It wasn't surprising, Cait figured. She just had figured Piper would have kept pining from afar. It seemed that was the only thing she was incapable of simply banging in to. But for now, she just shrugged, taking another pull on her cigarette. "So why are ye complainin'? Guy like ye, swimmin' in gals? Plenty be jelly of yer fortunes."

He paused, fiddling with something in his pocket. She couldn't see what it was, but her curiosity was piqued. He sighed, reaching with his other hand and tugging a battered flask out. He unscrewed the top, taking a swig before offering her some. She gleefully made him realize his error when she tipped it up, drawing in a few gulps.

"It's my wife."

She choked, taken aback through shock. She recovered quickly, staring at him in shock. He raised an eyebrow at her, a little amused.

"Nora."

"Ah," Cait replied, as if she understood. But she didn't, not really. The dead haunted her sure as sure, but while her decisions about her parents kept coming back to her, she wasn't sure how the deceased Mrs. Grayson factored in here. As if sensing her confusion, Grayson tugged out whatever he had been messing with. On a thin chain, shining in the low light, was a gold ring.

Fascinated, Cait slowly reached out. After only a moment of hesitation, he gently placed it in her hand. She rolled the ring between two fingers, suddenly feeling as if a warm bolt had lanced down through her, from her hand to her chest. Gold was practically worthless today, but she understood the importance behind what the ring signified in Pre-War culture. She glanced over at Grayson, about to ask a question when he tugged off his left hand glove, showing her the identical band on his own finger.

"Nora was a simple soul, God bless her," he said, voice almost wistful, a quality Cait had never thought she'd hear from the tough General. "I proposed while I was on leave from Alaska. Not much time for ring shopping, and she was familiar with the chances of getting robbed in Boston. So, we got a matching set. I took it off her when she...died."

Cait watched Grayson's face, but didn't say anything. She'd had her moments of weakness, discussing her parents and the drugs over a campfire, months back. He'd listened, let her open up and show a side of her she'd kept hidden from so many. Then, he had stood up and taken her off to get clean. The least she could do here was give him the same courtesy.

His expression softened, and his eyes seemed to lose focus, anchored on a corner but looking far beyond it.

"I took the ring off her. And I promised I'd get Shaun back. And I guess I've been running on full tilt ever since. Never had much time to just...sit down and think, y'know. Always something else to focus on, some job to do. Now, with the Institute gone, Shaun back and everything else, I guess I'm not ready to let her go yet. And when Curie…" he paused, glancing over at Cait. She wordlessly passed the ring back, though the warm feeling never left her chest. Her fingers brushed his, and she jumped slightly, glancing up at him. But he hadn't noticed.

"I haven't been looking for anyone else. There was one other when I came out, but she was honestly just...a band-aid I guess. Free spirit, reminded me of Nora. But now? I'm too busy. I've got a job to do, Shaun needs me and…" He paused again, trying to find the words. "I'm not ready."

He glanced back at her, about to apologize for suddenly offloading so much baggage on her, but found her watching him attentively, spying his reflection in her sunglasses pushed up on her forehead. There was a quiet moment between them, where it seemed neither of them were breathing. Then, Cait leaned in, planting a kiss on his cheek. The move was so gentle, Grayson was startled.

"Yer a good man, Grayson. Don' let anyone tell ye otherwise," she said, patting his shoulder before straightening, heading for the door. "Better get out here, fore someone comes lookin' fer ya again."

For a moment, Grayson was left alone, in a dead child's room, listening to the sounds of celebration outside. And then a realization struck him.

"That bitch stole my flask," he muttered.

* * *

They celebrated that night. The soldiers of Minutemen South who had done the fighting and the troops from East who had been security at the 'summit' turned Quincy into a pit of bright lights, loud music and drunken singing. While Diamond City Radio blasted over a dozen looted radio sets and out of parked Hummers, Minutemen and Atom Cats drank beer, vodka and whatever else they'd found. The Gunners here, as it turned out, had been living the good life of extorting travellers up and down this stretch. Looted caps, chems, drinks and weapons had practically poured out of the surviving stashes. Captain Sanders and his officers had kept order, and while sentries had been posted to watch for Gunner counterattack, the rest of the QRF celebrated the shifting tides. Less than a year ago, the Minutemen had almost been annihilated entirely, broken and discredited. Now, they'd taken the fight to not one, not two, but three powerful armies. Supplies and recruits were coming in from constantly growing settlements, a growing air force, navy and now the biggest shame to the Minutemen's honor had been wiped from the record. After the ceremony to cremate the eighteen dead and after seeing to the thirty-four wounded, Task Force Anvil had let out a collective breath. Hope for the Commonwealth had never been higher.

Piper leaned back, beer in hand as she looked out on the party. As luck would have it, the church had survived in good condition after the attack, minus one belltower that is. Parked around the white building were three of the Hummers, the others in other corners to ensure that if an attack did come, all their precious mechanized firepower wasn't at risk. In the street and in the church, the Regulars raised bottles to the fallen, to victory and, of course, to the Captain and the General. The church proper was full of power armor as Enforcers and Atom Cats compared armor and mocked the other side for perceived shortcomings. The more drunk they got, the more Piper decided it might be a better idea to step outside, and she stood to try and press through the crowd of leather jackets and blue fatigues.

"Hey! It's Miss Publick!" called out a voice nearby, and she winced, turning her head as a very drunk Zeke tumbled out of the crowd, whiskey in hand and glasses askew. The Atom Cats leader was for once out of his T-60, and his stagger was probably equal parts tipsiness and the unfamiliar sensation of walking on his own feet, with all the time he spent in his suit. Zeke stumbled over to her, grinning as he did so. "Hey, Piper! Where ya going, the shindig's right here! A pretty Dame like you should rock with a cool cat!"

"Flattered as I am, Zeke-"

She really wasn't.

"I already said no. Gotta stay sober to write tomorrow's story when I get back."

"Ah, the working stiff. Don't worry, this cat is cool with that!"

"Zeke!"

From out of the crowd, Roxy bolted forward, taking the inebriated armor pilot under one arm, shooting a quick apology to Piper as the prospect dragged Zeke back towards the other Cats. Now free to wander, Piper took to the streets, dodging past the Minutemen who stumbled around, finally taking their first opportunity to appreciate their fortunes. There had been no party like this after the Battle of Boston Commons, no time after wiping out the Institute. This was something worth actually celebrating.

She turned a corner and paused. Down the street, several cages were out in the lane, surrounded by Minutemen both drunk and sober. The sober ones were trying to keep the drunk ones at bay, albeit half-heartedly. For in the cages were Gunner POWs, only five. They had been captured in combat, while sixteen more had surrendered and asked to defect. They were currently locked up in the Quincy PD holding cells, awaiting judgements and away from the vengeful wrath of Minutemen out here. But these POWs? They were out in the open for all to see, cursing and spitting as they were jeered at and spat on. The Minutemen were determined to have their revenge.

One of them stepped close, a rifle with bayonet in her hands. She stabbed between the bars, laughing at the Gunner inside, who ducked away and hurled insults back. Piper bit her lip, setting her beer down on a nearby wall. Things were getting a little out of control. Best she keep her head on her shoulders here.

She kept walking the streets of Quincy, taking in the sights. Though only a few hours back in the hands of the Minutemen, flags bearing the rifle and lightning bolt hung from window sills and light posts. While not everyone was busy getting drunk, the spirit of celebration was infectious. Nearby, another group of Minutemen were sitting around one of the Hummers, chatting and laughing as they relaxed. Piper stepped over, and without even asking two soldiers held out cigarettes and more drinks, though she politely declined.

"Getting the story of the century, Piper?" asked one Minuteman, though she didn't know the man's name. Regardless, she nodded back.

"Been out here too long, need to get another edition of the Publick out before the people lose their intelligence again and put me down. At least I don't have any competition."

A round of laughter, and she stepped away from the group as they returned to their merry-making. It was good to see some genuine positivity these days. On a whim, she pressed through the streets of Quincy, heading for the police station, its shattered windows and walls covered with scrap metal and wooden boards proclaiming 'TASK FORCE ANVIL HQ' in bold white paint. This area was notably absent of celebrations and alcohol, and outside were two Minutemen, South by their sleeve patches. They held hunting shotguns, belts of shells draped over their chestplates. One of them glanced at Piper, but only nodded to her before turning back to the crowd. She pushed past, stepping inside without challenge.

The Quincy Police Station was quite sober by contrast to the outside. Everyone here in just the lobby was quiet, working with efficiency as they began to prepare for long term occupation. Behind the counter, a radio set had been established, buzzing as two technicians attempted to get it connected with the surviving station antenna. An assaultron nearby turned to Piper, the glowing red eye scanning her and recognizing the reporter as friendly before moving on, tramping over the tired wooden floor on a patrol path. Behind the desk itself, near the technicians, newly promoted Major Sanders quietly scribbled something onto a notepad, tearing off the sheet and passing it to a Regular, a corporal by his patches.

"Tell Evans I want fighting positions in these buildings. Get him to clear room for trenchworks around the wall. If his men are too busy or drunk, get the bots on it."

The corporal nodded, taking the slip and nearly running into Piper as he rushed outside, into the streets. There was a war to fight, after all. They'd all have to get back to that reality in the morning. Maybe sooner.

Sanders looked up at Piper, grunting as he turned to another piece of paper, scribbling something down as he consulted a map taped to the counter.

"Curie's downstairs."

"Actually, mind if I get a quote?" Piper asked, struck by a bolt of inspiration as she tugged out her notepad, wagging it suggestively in the air. Sanders snorted, not looking up as he continued on with his work, tearing off another memo and wordlessly handing it to a courier nearby, who inspected it for a moment before taking it away into the backroom.

"Pass, Miss Wright."

"Aw, c'mon Major," Piper mock-pleaded. "Don't tell me you're so busy you don't have time for a word or two for the adoring Publick of the Commonwealth."

"I am."

"And yeeeet…." She set the bait, drawing out her words without finishing the sentence.

Sanders looked up, raising the area where his eyebrow should have been. Being a ghoul really helped the man's stoneface attitude.

"And yet?"

Piper closed the trap.

"You're still talking to me."

Sanders groaned in aggravation, but Piper knew she'd won. Now he'd say anything to get her to go away.

"Miss Wright. I'm busy."

Maybe not. Piper grimaced, forgetting who she was talking to here. This was the man who had -enthusiastically- joined the Minutemen to strike back against the Brotherhood. He was made of sterner stuff. She switched tacts.

"Look, Major. I'm just looking for a word of inspiration here. Something to tie my story together. Imagine it, your words across the front page. How many young, eligible recruits would want to enlist after that?

Sanders paused, another note being scribbled out. He squinted, staring at her as he grit his teeth, clearly thinking over her words. Finally, he growled out "I know you're playing me. I know you're just saying...fine." He grunted, thinking carefully as he considered what he would say next, staring intensely at the floor. A minute or two passed by, and Piper wondered if perhaps she had gotten her bolt of brilliance with the wrong man. The next courier glanced over at the reporter, and the other woman grimaced.

Finally, Sanders looked back up, his chin set.

"This is a step. One a long time coming. But thinking the fight is over is the same as giving it up. General Grayson wants us to press the Gunners until they either leave the Commonwealth or we destroy them. And we need to accept that those are the only ways this fight ends."

Piper waited, pen hovering over her notepad, watching Sanders' eyes carefully. Sanders watched her back, just as intensely. Finally, he looked down, finishing his memo and handing it to the Regular, who sighed at last, pushing her way into the backroom.

"There. You have your quote," Sanders replied. "Now, I have to get back to work." And with that, he did so. No fanfare, no further statement. Just a quiet dismissal. Piper groaned, scribbling down the Major's words before she lost them. Maybe she could get something out of that, spice it up a little.

Muttering a few choice words about uncreative military types under her breath, she pressed through the door into the back as well. A small force of a dozen clerks and attendants were going over sheafs of paper, inspecting recon reports and inventories, categorizing casualties and requests for supplies. Quincy had taken a lot of damage in the attack, and if the Minutemen were going to defend and restore it, they needed to make use of what was on hand first, namely scrap material and captured supplies. A radio in the corner blared Diamond City Radio, playing what sounded like an Inkspots song, a sad and slow tune she couldn't make out before it ended.

" _Another classic,"_ said the voice of Travis 'Lonely' Miles. He must have been working late tonight if was on the radio after being in the station the whole day. " _Hey, all you tough cats in the Commonwealth tonight, I have some good news that should put a smile on your face and a skip in your hearts. It's just come to my attention that Quincy, that famous stronghold the Gunners have held on to for far too long, has just fallen to the Commonwealth Minutemen. I dunno about you, but I'm starting to feel safer everyday. Keep fighting the good fight, guys. This next one's for you. I just bought it off a trader, and its first play is dedicated to the boys in blue and grey. This is 'Country Roads.'"_

The song that came over the radio next started as several others had, with a slow string intro that quickly leapt into something new for everyone listening to that set.

"' _Almost heaven,_

 _West Virginia,_

 _Blue Ridge Mountains,_

 _Shenedoah River.'"_

The room paused as this new song, lost to time, filled the space, frozen in their functions. They'd listened to Diamond City Radio as long as they could remember, and before Travis there had been a man named Frank, though his untimely death had left the station empty for some time. But this song, so full of positive energy and unheard by any Commonwealth citizen, for one brief moment seemed to hold up the entire room.

Piper smiled, heading for the stairs down to the holding cells.

This area was still poorly lit. A lantern hanging on the wall did little to alleviate this issue, but fortunately for the one inside, another light had been provided in the form of a spotlight outside one cell. Next to it stood another South Regular, this one holding no weapon but a 10mm holstered at his belt. He glanced over at Piper, nodding as he identified who was coming down the stairs, and then turned back to the cell. Inside, Curie was rooting around in a Gunner's shoulder wound, her face covered by a surgical mask. To the patient's credit, he barely flinched, but Piper noticed he was pale and sweating profusely. Probably on Med-X, and she could see several instruments nearby and a stimpack as well as a blood pack injected into the Gunner's wrist. In the other two cells, the Gunner POWs who had surrendered were watching with morbid curiosity, a quiet over them. A few of them had already bandaged wounds, but most of the fifteen there were unharmed aside from a few bruises taken during rough treatment. Unlike the Minutemen wounded who had already been evacuated to recover at the Castle, the Gunner wounded wouldn't be leaving until Sanders was certain these would-be defectors were being honest in their claims of wanting to switch sides. The newly 'acquired' police Protectron was excellent motivation to stay on best behaviour if the guard wasn't enough.

Finally, Curie pulled her fingers out, a tiny black shard between the tips of her forceps. "Succès!" she exclaimed, dropping the shard in a tray with four others. Shrapnel from a grenade. Curie immediately pulled a needle and thin thread from her tools, working quickly as her hands flew over the gash. In less than a minute, she had closed the wound, tied it off and injected the stimpack into the Gunner's shoulder. The synthette stood, wiping her hands on a rag before splashing them in a small bowl of alcohol.

"Monsieur, if you continue to bleed and feel sharp pain after two days, please call for medical assistance. I am available to all my patients."

The defecting merc, barely conscious as he was, waved at her weakly. The guard unlocked the cell, letting Curie out as he collected the POW, roughly pulling him over to his fellows. Curie glanced over, smiling as she noticed Piper standing there.

"Mademoiselle Piper! I had not realized you were in Quincy too."

God, she always seemed so earnest and honestly glad to see her, Piper almost felt bad she'd been avoiding her the past week. Grayson's more regular travel companions were all friends on some level, but the amount she'd been around Curie, Piper had almost felt like she had a real friend, albeit a rather naive one who needed things defined on a regular basis, though this was really no different than a Vault dweller poking their head out for the first time.

Another subtle reminder that her mind had dropped on her of a certain someone. Why did that happen so often lately?

"Hey, Curie. Just came down to see how the prisoners were doing." A lie, but a convenient and believable one.

Curie shook her head, clicking her tongue as she did so.

"It is unfortunate that they are kept like this, non? I requested they be moved to proper medical facilities, perhaps in Diamond City or the Castle, but I had been turned down by Major Sanders. He calls them a security risk, you see. And it was difficult to work down here. I must remember to put in a request for more aid stations to be established on the roads, though I do realize that road security must come first and-"

"Curie?"

"Oui?"

"Breathe, babe," Piper chuckled, patting Curie's cheek. After a laugh, Curie had invited Piper over to the desk, where an evidence terminal had been turned into a log after stripping it for Gunner intel on holotapes. Curie herself chose not to partake in the drinking celebrations herself, citing her need to be able to take care of any injured that emerged from brawls, alcohol poisoning or, worst case scenario, a Gunner attack.

"You're going to Diamond City tomorrow then?"

"I never like to leave Nat alone for more than a week at a time lately," Piper replied, scribbling down some notes off the top of her head, the rough draft already composing itself in her mind. Now she just needed to get it onto her terminal back in the Publick's office. "Codsworth takes good care of her and everything, but with everything that's happened, I just wanna be there, y'know?"

"Non," Curie admitted nervously. "I am not like you, or Grayson or MacCready. I do not have anyone particularly close to me. My creator and his associates died many decades ago."

Piper had, of course, heard this story before, but it was difficult to remember that the always happy young woman had been alone for so long, and perhaps still felt that way now.

"Hey, c'mon. You've got us. We're close, right?"

Curie cocked an eyebrow up, an oddly sardonic expression on her. "Piper, most everyone we interact with are psychologically damaged and possess varying levels of sociopathy, myself included. We are, of course, including two robots and a super mutant in that list."

The reporter choked back a laugh, not expecting such a direct and blunt response to her statement. "Damn, Curie. Savage much?"

"I do not understand."

But before Piper could explain the abstract concept of the humorous use of the word 'savage', there came the loud slamming of the door upstairs, drawing all eyes as boots could be heard very audibly thumping down the stairs. In a moment, Cait emerged into sight, glancing around and immediately spotting Curie and Piper. She probably looked the most serious that Piper had ever seen.

"We need to talk. All of us."

* * *

 **Murkwater Post**

Among the settlements of the Commonwealth that could claim to be aligned with the Minutemen, there were two that cast that claim into doubt. Sunshine was built into an old co-op community, and today was a mercenary town that, while paying taxes and lip service loyalty to the Castle hosted everyone from Raiders to Gunners to Rust Devils and more.

Murkwater was a bit more complicated.

So far out of the way and so close to Gunners Plaza and Quincy, Murkwater claimed loyalty to the Minutemen, but was so difficult to reach that such a claim was not quite backed by much evidence. On top of that, its location in a radioactive swamp reduced its value. Only the water filters gave them much to sell, as even wildlife was scarce here aside from the occasional stray mirelurk or radstag. As a result, the swamp community of Murkwater Post relied on its trading post, welcoming both Gunners and Minutemen customers. For the most part, these two were wary enough of each other to leave the fighting out of town, though the occasions in which they were in the same town were few and far between, especially with the Minutemen warring against the Brotherhood Remnants. Word was, however, that that conflict might have finally ended with the Remnants banished from Boston proper.

The Gunners stopped coming to Murkwater yesterday.

Murkwater, as a backwood town, was home to a handful of structures, but one on the edge of town was a large building, the far side of a wrecked house, a simple low-ceilinged affair. Hanging outside the door, a yellow sign proclaimed it to be the headquarters of the Swamphounds Company, Bounty Hunters. The sign specifically noted that, to distinguish themselves from the Gunners who were so firm on their territorial claims. While the Minutemen had broken quite a lot of Gunner influence, clashes still occurred all over the Commonwealth, and none of the Hounds wanted to be chased by the vicious mercs.

So it was that, on this cool and damp night, Murkwater's security force (who all worked for the Swamphounds) spotted armored figures moving in the darkness. The Hounds were reasonably well equipped, having been supplied by both Minutemen aide caches and their own personal arms, acquired throughout their mercenary careers. One guard, dressed in a black set of combat armor and a leather bomber jacket he looted off a Brotherhood soldier, took a closer look at the figures, adjusting his knit cap.

"That's close enough, Friend. Come on out, so this doesn't get ugly."

The figures in the dark knew better than to try and hide. They paused in the reeds, talking quietly to each other, in voices too quiet for the Hounds to catch. The two glanced at each other warily, and the one in the knit cap and looted jacket lifted his Alvis LMG, toggling off the safety as his companion moved to adjust the spotlight that was part of their guard post.

"Hey, dickheads! I warned you! Now come on out!"

The light splashed over the group, and finally exposed them. Dark green combat armor exposed four figures, dressed in dark green armor with a shamrock splashed on the breastplate. Three of them were human sized, two males and a ghoul he couldn't quite identify. But the last one was massive. The Hound had assumed he was a merc in power armor, but that assumption quickly dropped as the bounty hunter gawked at this being. A huge backpack mount, and they need its hands was a titanic gatling laser, audibly humming with energy even from a hundred meters away. The face...oh God, the face under that helmet. As if pulled back into a permanent snarl.

"I understand your shock," the Super Mutant said (it spoke so clearly). "It is completely reasonable to be overtaken by-"

"Mutie! Fucking greenskin!" yelled the other Hound, apparently past his trauma as he grabbed for a hunting shotgun. The unknown mercenaries quickly drew their own guns, and both parties stared each other down gunsights, fingers on triggers. Behind the Hounds, Murkwater Post was waking to the alarm.

"It seems they have issues with my kin here as well," the Super Mutant grumbled, gatling laser charged and ready to fire.

"A little difficult to find a place where people -don't- have an issue Fawkes," said a voice behind the two Hounds, but before either of them could turn an arm coiled around each of their necks, pulling the two bounty hunters into a double headlock.

"Hey there, name's Martin Lake. Folks call me the Wanderer. We're with Reilly's Rangers. We're looking for the Brotherhood of Steel, you know where they might be?"

* * *

(Parting Shot: so, now we'll be moving back to the main storyline, for sure. You've been asking questions, and I have answers for

 **MASTER-OF-SUPRISE:** so far as I know, both Cypress and Kellogg in Nick were both supposed to be bigger story elements, and I suppose they were both simply cut from issues in storyline or time. Still, I had always began spiralling those questions around in my head, y'know? Those pieces are the ones that stick with you, bother you a bit as you wonder "what-if?" Thank God for Fanfiction, right?

 **Paladin Bailey:** I'll be fairly honest, even on my evil playthroughs, I could never spare the man who shot my father in front of me. But that's me, really. Also, I had wondered for a long time about what had happened to the Enclave, and honestly a group as powerful as the Enclave couldn't be completely destroyed like that. Stay tuned for more information on that.

And that's all for now, folks! I'll start churning out more chapters as soon as I can, but for now I'm just glad people actually seem to like this story. I'll see you all next time, so keep your guns loaded, your blades sharp, and your stimpacks close at hand!)


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